


Envy Engenders Spite

by CarpensDiem



Series: Greatness Inspires Envy [2]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Death Eaters, F/M, Quidditch, Wizarding World (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:07:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 151,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27386173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarpensDiem/pseuds/CarpensDiem
Summary: ~Continuation of Greatness Inspires Envy~Tom, Natalie, and the gang are back with more magical tomfoolery as they take on the wizarding world outside of Hogwarts. . . if they can handle it.
Relationships: Tom Riddle/Original Female Character(s), Voldemort - Relationship
Series: Greatness Inspires Envy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000632
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	1. July 1945: Albania is an Idiotic Country

Long, pale fingers crushed a twig between them with a cathartic crack. The pieces fell to the ground at the feet of the perpetrator.

Albania was an idiotic country.

Lord Voldemort had decided this after only two weeks of being there.

Two weeks and he had not come any closer to finding the lost Diadem of Ravenclaw.

Two weeks of scouring the Albanian forests.

Two weeks wasted.

Yes, it had been lost for centuries. Hidden away within the deep recesses of the forest by Helena Ravenclaw. 

But he was Lord Voldemort. 

He should have found it already.

A rustling in the darkness to his right distracted him. He paused, wand in hand. There was movement, and something burst out of the trees, charging towards him.

A twitch of his wand, a flash of green light — and it was dead.

He regarded it with cold eyes. Until his heart stilled and his mind roared. It was a predator, a large feline at that. It had tufted ears and golden-gray fur. Some sort of lynx, he surmised.

Rage reddening his vision, he jabbed his wand at the corpse of the wildcat and it disintegrated into the ground. 

It wasn’t until he had thrown several other Dark curses at the surrounding trees — chopping branches off, tearing roots up, exploding sap within — did he calm down.

Albania was an idiotic country and the cat looked too much like a clouded leopard.

He hadn’t seen her in two weeks.

He hadn’t realized what being this far separated from her would feel like. 

It was only two weeks. They’d been apart for longer stretches of time. But, somehow, someway, for some reason, it was agonizing. He felt sickly and incomplete. His head had a constant ache and something deep within him  _ yearned _ for something he didn’t have at the moment. 

There had been times at school when she had ignored him for equal or longer stretches of time. But she was still around. Her presence could still be felt, seeping through the castle like foggy tendrils of tantalizing power.

He only planned to take a month to search for the Diadem but he was considering returning to Britain and dragging her to Albania to assist him.

Because Albania was an idiotic country.

But he could not do that because that was weakness. And because she would taunt him about his miserable lack of results and they would end up bickering the entire time over whether or not it constituted a failure on his end. Which would inevitably end in a duel, which would inevitably end with one or both of them destroying the forest. The forest which hid what he so ardently searched for.

Withdrawal. He understood this as he kicked at a fallen tree branch. The sickliness. The emptiness. The longing. That was what it was. Withdrawal. From her energy. From her. 

He needed her.

The realization was mortifying. He didn’t like that he  _ needed _ someone. Even if it was  _ her _ . 

But it was so visceral. So profound. So  _ magical. _

He inhaled deeply, staring at the splinters of the destroyed trees around him.

Magic had done that. His magic. 

The thought made him smile. 

Magic could never lead him wrong. Magic had always showed him the truth. 

Magic was the only thing he had ever needed.

He exhaled as blissful understanding dawned over him. 

Her energy was magic. 

Of course he needed her.


	2. July 1945: England's Finest

Eugene Dent scowled at the newest member of the English national team. She stared back at him with enormous gray eyes. It unsettled him. Which in turn annoyed him because  _ he  _ was the team captain. He was the one who was supposed to cause discomfort. 

But this blonde-haired, pureblooded beauty made him incredibly uneasy and he didn’t know why.

Maybe it was the way she kept shifting back and forth on her feet. Heel to toe, toe to heel, heel to toe, toe to heel. He found himself rocking in the same rhythm and had to shake his head to steady himself. 

Maybe it was whatever swam in the fathoms of her eyes. He kept glancing back to stare into them. He had once thought his own pale eyes could be considered gray. Until he saw hers.  _ That  _ was what gray eyes looked like. 

Maybe it was just the fact that she was jaw-droppingly attractive.

That was going to cause some problems.

Jack Lament had promised him fresh blood for a Seeker. He just hadn’t been specific on what that entailed. Dent had hoped for his dream Seeker. Thin-build to be light on a broom and sharp eyes to be good at spotting things nobody else could. 

He had certainly not been hoping for a Seeker that looked like his dream girlfriend. If Lament had told him he was going to serve up a gorgeous blonde with what looked like more chaotic energy than she could keep a hold on — Dent would have rescinded his contract and quit, Merlin be damned. 

Well, maybe he wouldn’t have gone  _ that  _ far. 

It wasn’t every year you got a shot at winning the Quidditch World Cup.

But still — he already knew exactly what kind of problems this would cause.

A glance over at the rest of his team reinforced his train of thoughts. 

Leonard Cadwallader, one of his Beaters, was already drooling. Caddy, as Dent liked to call him, had been born and bred to play Quidditch. His brain was a Bludger, which made him good at hitting Bludgers and nothing else. The bloke was twenty-three years old, yet still looked like he was in his pimply-awkward-gangly-puberty phase and had done nothing besides hit Bludgers and fly on a broom his whole life. Dent had a suspicion he had never even held a girl’s hand, so the lovestruck look on his face wasn’t surprising.

What  _ was  _ surprising was the look on Ricky Webster’s face. His other Beater, “Pretty Ricky” Webster, could have been a poster boy for the now dead German Nazi party. Tall, blond, buff, sharp jawline, teeth whiter than pearls. He always had female fans swooning over him and had been in a “relationship” with a witch who was part veela for over a year now. But he still seemed to be sleeping with every girl who threw herself at him. Right now, his eyes were practically bulging out of his skull. Dent just wasn’t exactly sure  _ why _ .

Dent wasn’t as worried about his Chasers. They were triplets, which he knew would cause a load of trouble for announcers during their games. What caused double — or in this case, triple — trouble was that Tommy, Ted, and Tucker Pottinger had married three redheaded Irish triplets. Which, in Dent’s opinion, must be horrible at family parties. He couldn’t tell the Pottingers apart and they always seemed to be doing, saying, and thinking the exact same thing, all the time. Dent reckoned they shared one brain and that was why they were so bloody good at Chasing.

But still — Tucker was gawking at the new Seeker with something that looked like fear in his eyes — but Dent couldn’t be sure if it  _ was _ Tucker or if it was Ted. Or Tommy. 

“Er, alright,” he cleared his throat, trying to prevent his team from making fools of themselves in front of a teenager. “Welcome to the team, Natalie-”

“-Malfoy,” she finished his sentence with a smile and stepped forward to shake his hand. “Natalie Malfoy. I assume you’re Eugene Dent?”

He took her hand in his with the intention to give her his customary bone-crushing, welcome-aboard handshake. But found his hand had gone limp. 

Dent didn’t know how to describe it — like she had shocked him or cast some sort of spell. Crackling electricity seemed to shoot from her hand, up his arm and into his chest. He nearly choked. His mind spun in a thousand different directions, his skin crawled, his mouth went dry, his heart pounded so fast he was sure you could see it through his robes, and his ears  _ hurt- _

She released his hand and took a step back, almost looking apologetic. Dent was distinctly aware of the rest of his team gaping at him. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” he finally muttered, trying to look anywhere but his new Seeker. He had no bloody idea what happened but he felt woozy. Like he needed to sleep off a boatload of Firewhiskey. He could taste bile in the back of his throat and begged every famous wizard he knew that he would  _ not _ vomit in front of the attractive new Seeker on their first scheduled practice.

“Right, er, I’ve been a bit. . . stressed. . . the past two weeks so, um, mind if we start practice?” asked the Seeker — her name was Natalie — he remembered that much, and Dent found himself furiously nodding. 

He watched his new Seeker hop on her broom and hover in the air and a frenzied desire seized him. He wanted to shake her hand again — however intoxicated it had made him feel. And then maybe after practice they could. . . talk more. . . .

As if she felt his gaze on her, she snapped her head over to stare at him. Steeling himself, Dent jumped on his own broom and rose up to hover in the air beside her.

He quickly glanced at her left hand. Sometimes people got engaged right out of Hogwarts. Which he thought was crazy. But he didn’t see a ring. He didn’t see any jewelry, save a silver chain around her neck largely hidden by her Quidditch robes.

“Hey, uh, Malfoy, quick question,” began Dent, hoping his voice wasn’t actually wavering. “Just so I know — seeing as some matches are going to get pretty rowdy with fans and all, but, er, are you seeing anyone? Got a boyfriend at all?”

Dent immediately regretted asking this. The look on her face made him want to cry, much less how cold the air suddenly seemed to feel around them. He shivered and dropped his gaze. Bloody hell — he was twenty-two years old but he felt like a scared little boy. This was why having attractive witches on the team was a horrible idea.

“I do,” she said, voice so icy he was convinced her lips had frozen. “But I didn’t sign a contract for you to ask if I’m in a relationship, Dent.”

“Right, er, sorry,” he blurted out, “just, um, wanted to get that out of the way. You know how some blokes can be the instant they see any witch who’s even mildly fit. . . .”

“Like you?”

“What, er, no-”

“You can cut the shit, Dent,” she rolled her eyes and Eugene Dent slammed his jaw shut. “You’ve been hoping you’d have a shot since the second you saw me.”

He reddened, not quite sure how she knew that because he wasn’t sure  _ he  _ even knew that. Yes, she had everything he would ask for if he could design a girlfriend; blonde,  _ incredibly  _ good-looking, pureblood, athletic, into Quidditch- 

Dent shook his head, clearing his thoughts and finding himself relieved she  _ did _ have a boyfriend because now he wouldn’t be distracted by her — hopefully. Now, he could just obsess over her like any Quidditch captain did with their Seeker — they were the most important position; they could make or break a game, a season, even the entire team. And he had a feeling his Seeker was as mental about Quidditch as he was. Hell, to get signed to the national team right out of school meant you  _ had _ to be mental about Quidditch. And being mental about Quidditch was a language Dent was fluent in. 

“Anyway,” he coughed, “let’s start practice.”


	3. July 1945: It's a Pureblood World, We're All Just Living in It

“I cannot believe I ended up working with the most idiotic bloke in all of Britain.” Adolphus Lestrange pointed across the room, where Eric Dawson had just entered the lavishly furnished study in the Malfoy family mansion. “Why’d you hire this git too?”

“Because,” Abraxas Malfoy glanced up from the pile of paperwork he shuffled through on the desk, an irritated look on his face. “Our families are all very close. And if I thought both of you were completely incompetent, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Nice to see you too, Adolphus,” Dawson rolled his eyes and dropped onto the couch beside Lestrange. He surveyed the table in front of them and frowned. “What are you doing?”

“Someone,” Lestrange shot a look at Abraxas, “is making us write out —  _ by hand —  _ his wedding invitations. As if this has  _ anything _ to do with company business. I was under the impression we were working for Triple I, but apparently I was mistaken.”

“Yes, and I’ll fire you if you continue to be annoying,” droned Abraxas. “It’s not as if I don’t have mudbloods falling over themselves to work for this company. And I said you could use magic after I realized how bloody awful your handwriting is.”

Lestrange leered over at Dawson. “Eric has  _ very _ nice handwriting. . . .”

“No thanks,” said Dawson, hastily pulling out his wand. The two recent Hogwarts graduates were technically supposed to be working directly under Abraxas, who had taken control of his father’s shares of Triple I upon Tiberius’s election as Minister of Magic. Abraxas said he needed them for company outreach and distribution management — but the stress of the wedding next month had shifted all his attention to making sure everything would be perfect for the big day.

“Why’re you two getting married so quickly anyway?” asked Lestrange and he received a shove from Dawson. He paled in realization, opening his mouth to blurt an apology.

“Because Mother is sick,” said Abraxas without a hint of emotion, not looking up from the parchment he pored over. “She wishes to see us married.”

“You knew that,” Dawson whispered to a horrified Adolphus. 

Lestrange hissed back, “I forgot!”

Dawson shook his head and the two went back to magicking out the invites. 

They had just finished and were trying to figure out a decorative little spell to make the borders of the parchment turn silver when the study door opened and in stepped Melania Crouch.

“Abraxas?” she called quietly and he jumped, scattering the stack of parchment all over the floor. Turning red as he muttered a spell to retrieve them. 

Across the room, Lestrange and Dawson had to duck to hide their laughter. Since the engagement, Abraxas acted as flustered and love-struck as when he had first started dating Melania.

Melania giggled and approached the desk, handing him a letter. “It’s from Natalie,” she said with a smile and gave him a brief kiss which made him immediately drop the letter. 

She picked it up for him and placed it back on the table with a twinkle in her eye before walking over to where Lestrange and Dawson quickly stopped laughing and pretended to still be struggling with the aesthetics of the invitations. 

Melania studied the invitations for a moment, then tapped the pile with her wand. Every single one changed drastically, morphing from a curling silver theme to an elegant black and white design. 

Lestrange and Dawson stared at her. 

“Much better,” she whispered, winked conspiratorially at them, and floated out of the room. 

The two then waited a few minutes before asking the burning question that had been on their minds since they heard their former Quidditch captain’s name.

When Dawson couldn’t bear it anymore, he blurted out, “what’d she say?”

“Yeah, we haven’t heard anything from her in two weeks — since Hogwarts,” said Lestrange, looking very upset about this fact. 

Abraxas chuckled as he folded the letter. “She punched the team captain in the face during their first practice.”

* * *

  
  


“Oi! Oi! Evan! Hold the door!” Except Evan Rosier did not have to do that because the elevators in the Ministry of Magic are, shockingly, magical.

The door remained open long enough for Zacharias Nott to jump in and join Evan Rosier.

Rosier gave his long-time friend, cousin, and former teammate a suspicious look. “Let me guess — Seamus Dawson’s office.”

“Wait, you too?” Nott’s jaw dropped.

“Yeah,” smirked Rosier, “who’d have thought.”

Nott groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead as the elevator doors closed and it began to drop. “For a bloke whose father is the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, he sure can act like an idiot.”

“I heard he and Adolphus are at Triple I,” said Rosier with a laugh. “And that Abraxas is making them do his bitch work.”

“I assume you lot got a wedding invite?”

“I assume the entire wizarding world did.”

“That’s going to be a party to remember,” Nott flashed a grin.

Rosier snickered, “or not remember.”

The elevator came to a stop and the doors dinged open. In walked a very large pile of newspapers until Rosier knocked half of them to the floor.

“Hello, Lloyd.”

Lloyd Avery stared down at the scattered newspapers in horror before glancing up and noting who was in the elevator with him.

“Oh, hi,” he said, blinking as though not quite sure where he was. “Fancy seeing you two. . . .”

“We work here now,” said Nott, “I’m guessing it’s the same with you?”

“With the Prophet,” Avery said with palpable gloom. The elevator doors closed behind him and it continued descending deeper into the Ministry. “Adolphus’s father got me in.”

“Yeah, I heard you’re under Jonathan Shaw, right?” inquired Rosier. “What’s he got you doing?”

“ _ Walking _ the day’s copy of the Prophet to  _ every  _ office in the Ministry,” said Avery. “As if we don’t have bloody magic.”

Nott gathered all the newspapers back into a pile with a flick of his wand. “And you’re actually doing it?”

“Yeah,” mumbled Avery, “Shaw terrifies me.”

“Shaw? Jonathan Shaw scares you?” laughed Rosier, “that bloke was a goofball at school. Remember when Cap nearly made him piss himself because he was late to breakfast the day of a Quidditch match?”

“Yeah, but Cap scared everyone,” sighed Nott with unexpected wistfulness. “I miss her.”

“You have a girlfriend, Zack,” Rosier teased him.

“You know what I mean!” Nott rolled his eyes, “not her — like, her, you know. . . .”

“Energy?” Avery tossed the word out and the two others glared at him. He reddened and dropped his gaze, meekly clutching the stack of newspapers.

An uncomfortable air arose in the elevator at the mention of the former Quidditch captain. The three avoided meeting each other’s eyes. They’d broached upon a topic which none of them wanted to address because they all agreed with Nott’s assessment.

“Has, er, anyone heard from her at all?” Nott asked in a small voice.

“No,” replied Rosier as Avery shook his head. “Not a word since we left school two weeks ago.”

“Pity,” mumbled Nott and the silence between them returned.

“Anyway,” Rosier cleared his throat as the elevator came to a stop and announced the floor of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. He nodded at Avery and the newspapers. “This is us. Good luck with that, Lloyd.”


	4. July 1945: The Big Day

The wedding took place at the Malfoy family manor and was the ultimate pureblood party of the century. The Minister of Magic being the groom’s father, anybody who was anybody in the wizarding world was in attendance. 

Natalie Malfoy stood near the door of the study inside the estate. Abraxas and Melania had decided on a private ceremony. Natalie knew it was because of Portia Malfoy. Even from across the room, she could feel death hanging over her aunt. Which was why Natalie insisted on standing near the door. Despite the happiness of the day, her skin crawled and it was goddamn depressing, which probably wasn’t helped by her decision to wear a black dress. But she looked bloody good in it. 

She eagerly awaited the ceremony to end so she could run down the hall and see her old friends and teammates for the first time since Hogwarts. And she held onto a shred of hope that  _ someone _ was back from Albania.

Only herself, Domitia Malfoy, Tiberius Malfoy and his wife, Portia, along with Melania’s parents; Casper and Charis Crouch, and her brother, Bartemius, were also present for Abraxas and Melania saying their vows, which were occasionally interrupted by the rumbling of thunder and the flashing of lightning through the windows. Their vows were so sappy, Natalie had to check her laughter on multiple occasions. The officiant was Rabastan Lestrange, Adolphus’s father, the current head of the Daily Prophet, and Tiberius’s long time friend. 

The weather being stormy that day had sent Abraxas into a panic — as the original plan was to host the reception out on the rolling lawns of the estate. They could have just magicked tents and whatnot — but that wouldn’t have been nearly as dramatic enough for a Malfoy wedding.

Domitia had chuckled, whipped out a crafty little spell that she “had always wanted to use”, and showed them all the ballroom that had been tucked into the magical layout of the mansion for “special occasions only” by Cassius Malfoy. Apparently, Natalie’s deceased grandfather felt having a fully functional ballroom for the hosting of massive events was a necessity. That was where the rest of the pureblooded wizarding world waited, just down the hall. 

Natalie and the others clapped once Rabastan declared Abraxas and Melania man and wife and they kissed, a shower of silver sparks flying up around them.

“Alright,” Domitia Malfoy looked at her grandchildren. “Now go enjoy the party.”

Natalie did not need telling twice. She flung the study door open for Abraxas and Melania, though they suggested she go out first.

“But it’s  _ your _ wedding day!”

“Yes, but you’re going to announce us,” insisted Abraxas, unable to keep the brilliant smile off his face.

She blanched at this prospect in spite of his happiness. “Do you know how many people-”

Abraxas laughed, “you don’t have to say anything. Just walk into the room. Trust me.”

“Alright,” she grudgingly complied because it was, after all, their wedding day. She slipped out the door, heels tapping along the hardwood floor of the hallway as Abraxas and Melania giggled behind her, as if they knew something she didn’t.

Natalie approached the double doors leading to the ballroom. There was a crack of thunder outside as two house-elves opened them. She stepped into the enormous room and was briefly aware of hundreds of eyes being drawn in her direction before she skittered off so the newlyweds could claim the spotlight. 

The guests were seated at round silver tables and leapt to their feet to clap as Abraxas waved and Melania blushed. He led her to a small table that had been set up for them at the far end of the room and food began appearing with small pops on all the tables.

The ballroom lighting was dim (Natalie was fairly certain the silver lights floating around were  _ actual  _ fairies) but she sprinted to the left where she spotted a group of very familiar wizards in their best dress robes.

“Cap!” the group of young wizards greeted the witch in a black dress. She flew over to their table with an enormous grin. 

“I’m not your captain anymore,” but she couldn’t keep the squeal out of her voice as Lestrange and Dawson wrapped her in a hug. Nott and Rosier were next, and she even planted a fond kiss on Avery’s cheek — making him blush and stutter.

“And the kids came too!” she nearly squeezed the life out of Neil Lament and Cato Greengrass. 

“It’s only been a month,” laughed Neil and he handed her a drink. She downed it eagerly before snatching Lestrange’s drink and finishing that off too. 

“Woah!” he began to protest.

“Oh, stop, you lot have clearly been drinking for the past several hours,” she snapped and sheepish grins appeared on their faces — proving her right. After she polished off Dawson’s drink, she glanced around at their table and did a headcount. Lestrange, Dawson, Rosier, Nott, Lament, Greengrass, Avery-

“He’s not here,” Lestrange immediately knew who she was looking for. 

Natalie scowled. “I know. Just hoped that maybe. . . .” she was interrupted by someone tapping her shoulder. She spun around and couldn’t help her face from falling when it was not the one person she desperately wanted to be there that night.

“Well, gee, don’t look too upset to see me,” teased Jonathan Shaw. Giles Morrison popped up beside him. 

Morrison grinned. “Yeah, what’s with the long face, princess?”

“Nothing, shut up,” she said, forcing a laugh into her voice and giving her two old teammates hugs. “Jonathan, I heard you’re giving Avery hell at the Prophet.”

Faking offense, he scoffed, “it’s tradition to make the new kids’ lives miserable. I wouldn’t dare break such a time-honored code.”

Giles Morrison rolled his eyes. “That’s just because Dolohov made  _ his  _ life miserable the first few months there.”

“Dolohov?” Natalie repeated the name of one of their former housemates. “Antonin? He’s working for my Uncle, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he hated the Prophet,” laughed Shaw, “first month in complained so much about it that Rabastan Lestrange begged Tiberius to take him.”

“Uncle says he’s brilliant. Best assistant he ever had,” said Natalie and she looked around the ballroom. “Where is he? Someone tell him to come sit with us.”

“I’ll get him,” offered Shaw and he vanished into the crowd.

After telling half the group to go find their girlfriends or anyone else who might be interested in sitting at their table, Natalie was left alone with Giles Morrison and Eric Dawson. 

“Listen,” she turned to them and tugged up the bottom of her dress, making Dawson look away, blushing red in horror while Morrison laughed as she just whipped out her wand from where she’d tucked it in a secret pocket against her thigh. 

Dawson blushed a deeper red upon realizing he’d misinterpreted her gesture as she waved her wand at the table. It magically expanded itself, adding more chairs and plates with food. “The dinner menu is bloody amazing so we gotta eat.”

The two laughed and they took their seats, digging into the exquisite food as the table slowly filled around them. 

Adolphus Lestrange and Savanna Rowle, with Savanna’s little brother, Silas, eagerly tagging along, were the first back, sitting beside Natalie and Eric. The table was circular but the Quidditch team still claimed seats in a similar manner to the one they sat in while at Hogwarts. They instinctively allowed the seat on Natalie’s left side to remain empty. 

“Giles, where are you now?” asked Natalie as Nott and Rosier reappeared with Pamela Selwyn and Quinn Bulstrode. The four of them were already incredibly drunk. Cato Greengrass and Neil Lament staggered over next with Elizabeth Beckham and Cassiopeia Black. They brought a slew of Black family members with them — including Callidora, Orion, Alphard, Walburga, Lucretia and her husband, Ignatius Prewett, and recently married Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier. The latter being Evan Rosier’s sister, the two exchanged annoyed faces upon sighting each other before breaking into laughter. 

“Gringotts,” said Morrison over a goblet of wine. “Wizard liaison office. In fact,” he looked over at Lestrange and Dawson. “I might be seeing you two very soon.”

“Why?” asked Lestrange, making Savanna Rowle snort at his bluntness.

Dawson, not quite as inebriated as Lestrange (yet), still had part of his brain working. “The Russian deal?” 

“Exactly,” grinned Morrison, “there’s no way in hell we’re giving them a loan but they won’t back down. They keep on bringing in all sorts of ridiculous things as collateral.”

“Are you lot talking about Russia?” asked Rosier, face red from Firewhiskey. “I’m sick of hearing about Russia. It’s all we hear about at work.”

“Russia this, Russia that, Russia, Russia, Russia,” Nott added his opinion. “Bloody Russia. They’re the only other blokes in the world, apparently.”

The ranting about the Soviet country was interrupted by the return of Jonathan Shaw with Antonin Dolohov and another wizard whom Natalie thought she may have seen before.

“Brought the princess her request,” Shaw drunkenly gestured to a smirking Dolohov. “It was bloody awful trying to get him away from the Ministry crew.”

“Oi!” protested Rosier. “ _ We’re _ the Ministry crew!”

“I mean the actual Ministry crew. You’ve been there for what, a month?” taunted Shaw as the three new arrivals moved to take places around the table. 

“Natalie,” Dolohov took her hand that did not clutch a goblet of Firewhiskey and kissed the back of it. She watched his eyes widen and correctly guessed he had just experienced a bolt of intoxicating energy. “Er, it’s, uh, been a while.” He recovered himself and then dropped into the seat on her immediate left.

“Don’t sit there,” she snapped, slamming her goblet onto the table and attracting everyone’s attention. The table now had at least twenty young witches and wizards gathered around it.

Dolohov opened his mouth as if to argue but Lestrange jumped in from Natalie’s right. “Yeah, that’s where her boyfriend sits, mate. Except everyone knows he’s not coming tonight.”

“Boyfriend?” Dolohov looked disappointed but Shaw and Morrison echoed his surprise at hearing this.

“Boyfriend?” Morrison raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess — Riddle.”

Natalie turned to stare at him but did not miss the fear that flashed through Dolohov’s eyes at the mention of the name. For some reason, this pleased her. And he moved over one seat. “How’d you know?”

Shaw choked on his drink. “Well, isn’t it obvious? The way you two just bloody looked at each other at school.”

“Where is he, anyway?” asked Morrison. “Wasn’t he invited?”

“Yes, but he’s traveling,” muttered Natalie, hand flying up to play with the ring hanging on a chain around her neck. She’d extended the chain so it couldn’t be seen with the sweetheart neckline of her dress tonight, but she’d fallen into a habit of toying with it whenever she felt uneasy. Which was now extremely often. 

Morrison looked skeptical. “Are you sure that’s not code for you broke up?” 

“Yes!” she hissed with so much venom they decided to drop the topic, but not before a drunk Antonin Dolohov slipped in one more comment.

“Well, if it is code, you know where to find me,” he went to wink but ended up wincing instead. A hand flying to his ear, he gave her an odd look. 

Natalie cursed under her breath as Lestrange and Dawson sent warning glances her way. She tucked the ring back under the neckline of her dress and allowed it to rest just above her heart, feeling its cool, ticking presence. At least  _ part  _ of who the seat on her left was for was here tonight. She took a deep breath and focused on the ring. Abraxas’s wedding was  _ not _ the place to have a blow up. 

Not blowing up, however, had been increasingly difficult since leaving Hogwarts. And she knew part of the reason for that was the empty seat on her left. 

“Anyway,” Dawson jumped to her rescue, nodding at the third wizard who had arrived with Shaw and Dolohov and had since remained silent. “You look familiar?”

“Should hope so,” came the reply along with a grin. “We overlapped for a few years at Hogwarts. Seymour Mulciber, in case anyone’s forgotten. I’ve seen some of you around the Ministry,” he looked over at Nott, Rosier, and Avery. 

They blanked and shook their heads.

Mulciber snorted but glanced first at a very drunk Neil Lament and then at Natalie. “Matt Lament’s office, Department of Magical Sports and Games.”

Natalie trained her full attention on him now, delighted to have a distraction from the spinning inside her. “Oh, really?”

“Matt’s my uncle,” Neil gave everyone a goofy smile and the half of the table that was paying attention to their conversation laughed at him. 

“The very one,” grinned Mulciber. “And I can’t say much about Russia other than I heard they’re putting together a killer team for the upcoming World Cup.”

The mention of the Quidditch World Cup had the table buzzing. 

“When do they announce the roster?” called Lestrange over all the chatter.

“Not supposed to tell,” admitted Mulciber but a sly look came over his face. “But. . . oh, what the hell — end of the month.”

“That’s when it goes public, though,” added Dolohov and his dark gaze scoured Natalie’s face. She met his eyes over the rim of her goblet. Draining it, she tapped her index finger against it and it refilled. Dolohov grinned wickedly and continued. “But the players are already supposed to know by now. . . .”

Everyone stared at a silent Natalie Malfoy, their eyes wide. Orion Black looked ready to explode and Neil Lament’s jaw hung open. 

“My dad didn’t tell me that!” Neil was outraged. “Cap — are you — well, are you-”

Natalie didn’t answer. She tilted her goblet back and finished her drink. Licking her lips and refilling it yet again with another tap of her finger. Nobody around the table breathed and she enjoyed the strained silence for a moment. 

According to Jack Lament, Eugene Dent, and the entire Department of Magical Sports and Games, she wasn’t supposed to inform anyone she was playing on the national team until the roster was publicly announced. So, naturally, she had told the one person who could actually keep secrets, but he wasn’t even here tonight. Everyone else thought she was playing for the Tutshill Tornados. Though she was fairly certain Mulciber already knew everything about the national team, from the smirk he was hiding in a goblet of wine.

She took another sip of her drink. She was definitely nearing the intoxication level of Lestrange, whose eyes were so glassy she could see her reflection in them. She used his eyes as a mirror for a moment, flicking a piece of white-blonde hair out of her face. 

“Are you gonna tell us?” begged Lestrange in a tortured whisper.

Natalie finished off her drink in response. And it refilled. 

They watched her finish this one. 

It refilled.

Everyone around the table felt themselves losing their own sobriety as they watched her continue to drink and drink and drink. She focused on the empty seat on her left, allowing it to infuriate her and envisioned the spinning inside her churning outwards and adding to the general atmosphere of intoxication. Even the subtle ticking feeling of the ring hanging on her chest seemed to grow inebriated.

When she was satisfied with the look in everyone’s eyes, she drained her goblet for the last time and slammed it onto the table. She drew in a breath and knew nobody would remember tonight anyway. 

But she never had the chance to tell them. 

“Natalie!” called a voice over her shoulder and she glanced back. Rabastan Lestrange stood there with a sobering look on his face. 

“Dad!” whined Adolphus, “she was just about to-”

“Not now,” Rabastan silenced his son with a look. He turned back to Natalie. “I need you to come with me. It’s your aunt.” 

Natalie blanched, immediately regretting having drank so much. She scrambled to her feet and allowed Rabastan to lead her out of the ballroom. 

“Is she-?”

“She’s about to,” he said, hurrying down the hall to the study where Abraxas and Melania had said their vows. 

“Well, shit, what can I do?”

“I don’t exactly know, but Tiberius asked me to retrieve you-”

Domitia Malfoy stepped out of the study door and sharply closed it behind her. She met her granddaughter’s eyes. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Natalie gaped, feeling like she had whiplash. “What, no, is she — what can I do? There’s gotta be something, you know-”

“She’s gone, Natalie,” Domitia shook her head over her granddaughter’s insistence. “There wasn’t anything any of us could do. It was time.” 

“But, but-” she spluttered, glancing from Domitia Malfoy to Rabastan Lestrange. Hadn’t he called her out so she could help? She knew by now he and her Uncle Tiberius knew about her intriguing energy power. There had to be something-

“Go back to the party,” said her grandmother with a smile. “And keep quiet about it. Abraxas can find out later.”

“Yes, he can wait.” Tiberius Malfoy now emerged from the study. Natalie could feel the raw emotion behind his controlled mask. He cleared his throat, meeting her eyes. “I had hoped that maybe there was something you could do. . . but my mother is right. It was time. She got her dying wish — to see her son married.”

Natalie had never been very close with Portia Malfoy, but found herself devastated. Maybe it was the wavering in Tiberius’s rigid gray eyes or maybe it was just how much she had drunk in a very short time. Or maybe it was that Abraxas was celebrating the happiest day of his life but tomorrow would be informed his mother had passed. Or maybe it was that her cousin would now also have to experience what it was like to lose his mom. 

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Rabastan Lestrange gently guided her back down the hall and to the ballroom. 

“Don’t let it ruin the party,” he said, though she barely heard him over the crashing of her mind. “But, er, maybe ease up on the drinking.”

She blinked at him, realizing how much he looked like his son, Adolphus. “Can you feel it?”

He winced and retracted his hand from her shoulder as they reentered the ballroom. “Yes. I feel like I’m five drinks in myself and I haven’t even touched the champagne tonight.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, her gaze returning to the large group of witches and wizards across the room. Several of them gestured for her to return.

“Youth can handle it better,” Rabastan followed her gaze and smiled. “Go on. Don’t think about your aunt.”

Natalie wove her way back through the crowd, stumbling in her heels as her mind seemed to shut down. 

Abraxas and Melania had just gotten married, and so she was happy. Her Aunt Portia had just died, and so she was sad. There was nothing she could do about the latter. But her Uncle Tiberius had hoped there might have been. But there wasn’t. It had been too late. But what if there  _ had _ been something she could do? What if she could have saved her aunt’s life, time to die or not? But why was she so caught up with this? Her grandmother had said it was her time. Could she even have done anything? Did her power allow her to combat the forces of death? Or at least — of illness? She knew she could use it to heal others. Maybe if she had  _ tried _ \- 

Her mind wanted to tear itself to pieces over it all. She was happy. She was sad. She was curious. She was regretful. She was furious. She was intoxicated. She was anxious. She was depressed. And she was all these things ten times over because  _ someone _ wasn’t there that night. Even though  _ someone  _ had specifically stated he would only be traveling for a month. Now it was August and she had no idea where he was and all she knew was that he had left her with a piece of his soul and that she was constantly overcome with an uncontrollable, raging energy and hadn’t been able to sleep all month and could barely handle herself and  _ where was he- _

“Sorry!” she tripped and stumbled into someone who caught her by the arm and glanced her over. It was Seamus Dawson, another friend of Tiberius’s, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and Eric Dawson’s father.

“You alright, dear?” he asked her kindly, concern fluttering through his green eyes — a shade darker than his son’s. 

She blinked and mumbled, “yeah, er, yes.”

He didn’t seem to believe her. But he released her arm after making sure she was steady on her feet by herself and quietly asked, “Portia’s gone, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” she repeated, feeling dazed. 

“Go have another drink and don’t think about it,” he said with a solemn smile. 

Natalie thought Seamus Dawson gave much better advice than Rabastan Lestrange. She ducked her head in a nod and slipped past him. She made it to the table, where Eric Dawson pulled her back into her seat.

“What was that about?” asked half the table.

“Nothing,” she exclaimed with a dramatic flourish. Then she flipped her hair over her shoulder and snatched the drink from Antonin Dolohov’s hand. “I just need another drink.”


	5. July 1945: Ancient Rome Had a Hot Aesthetic

Drunk out of her mind, on the verge of tears, and having begged Abraxas and Melania to allow her to be the godmother of their first child at least three times — Natalie managed to apparate back to the house she used as her personal base of operations, or when she didn’t want to destroy the Malfoy Manor. It was her father’s old mansion in Ireland, refurbished to fit her magical needs — which tended to be uncontrollable and ruinous.

It had taken her a while to escape the clutches of her old teammates and friends. The drunker she was — the more intoxicating her energy. Combined with the fact that everyone was already drinking anyway, by the end of the night, everyone was behaving completely out of their minds.

Eric Dawson collapsed into tears on her shoulder and cried until she hugged him. He then perked up immediately and attempted to demonstrate that he could produce a Patronus Charm. He failed drastically, and ended up lighting their table on fire. Giles Morrison had to hurry over from a conversation with Seamus Dawson to put it out before Eric’s father (or anyone else) noticed, because everyone at the table was too busy howling over how hilarious it was.

Antonin Dolohov insisted that the lack of appearance by Tom Riddle meant she and Riddle had broken up. So she punched him in the face right in front of her uncle, the Minister of Magic, and Dolohov’s boss, (who just took a sip of wine and pretended not to see) and Dolohov fell to his knees and asked her to marry him. She answered by throwing her drink in his face. This did nothing to deter him, and he was attached to her side the entire night, pledging, if not his love at least his loyalty.  _ This _ had done nothing but cause Lestrange and Dawson to have a very clandestine conversation over whether or not Dolohov could ever become “one of the Knights”.

Adolphus Lestrange charmed a silver knife into a ring — his drunk magic made it end up the size of a bracelet — and he used it to propose to Savanna Rowle, who insisted they at least wait until she left Hogwarts. But she still slipped the charmed silver onto her wrist anyway.

Eric Dawson then demanded his own “love and fealty bracelet” from Adolphus, who gladly complied (complete with a proposal) until everyone was wearing magicked silver bracelets that were once cutlery and Adolphus, to the disgust of  _ both  _ Eric and Savanna, had asked  _ all  _ of them to marry him. All except Nott, Selwyn, Rosier, and Bulstrode. Seymour Mulciber reported that the two long-time couples were “frolicking on the front lawn in the rain” though everyone assumed this meant they were shagging somewhere. 

Jonathan Shaw then broke down and told everyone he and Mallory Blackwater were no longer dating, and Lloyd Avery passed out in the middle of dessert, face-planting into a piece of wedding cake and getting frosting all over Cygnus and Druella Black. 

Furious, Druella had taken her cake and thrown it in Avery’s face — which hadn’t woken him up but  _ had  _ begun a massive food fight at their table. It didn’t end until Abraxas and Melania marched over — only for Lestrange to fling cake at the groom which ended up hitting the bride. That was when everyone froze in horror. But Melania had just giggled, picked up the nearest uneaten slice of cake, and smashed it all over Abraxas.

And once, when Horace Slughorn was spotted waddling over to greet the hodge-podge collection of his current and former students, Alphard Black (who, his sister Walburga insisted, would be the funniest wizard alive if he wasn’t so fond of mudbloods) conjured copies of the Daily Prophet, distributed them to everyone, and the entire table fell silent, thoroughly engrossed themselves in their newspaper (Adolphus and Eric even conjured monocles), and pretended to be unable to see, hear, or notice Slughorn until he trudged off, bewildered by their collective odd behavior.

God, the night had grown so ludicrous Natalie nearly forgot her aunt had died and her boyfriend had never showed up.

The stone steps that led to the front entrance of the modified mansion seemed as steep as mountains. With tears streaming down her face, Natalie cursed herself. Why had she added so many when redesigning the place? Sure, it looked fabulous — but climbing them while drunk was a bloody fucking goddamn dragonshit nightmare.

At least they glowed so she could see them. The Irish countryside was pitch black at three in the morning. The night had been moonless, given the blanket of sluggish clouds that hung in the heavens from the storms earlier, and the fog creeping silently over the grass. 

Wait a second. . . . 

Natalie tripped and fell, scraping her hands against the stone steps. Wondering if she was bleeding, she looked down at her hands and realized two things.

She was not bleeding. At all. She hadn’t even scraped herself.

The steps weren’t glowing. She was.

“Oh, bloody hell,” she whispered, gaping at the wisps and strands of white energy curling around her skin and melting into the fog. They grew blurry and her face felt wet.

Natalie wiped at her eyes and shivered with something that was not cold.

That was when she realized she was inhaling and exhaling so quickly it didn’t feel like she was breathing at all.

“I bloody hate drinking,” she moaned, picking herself up and continuing to stumble through the fog and up the steps. And she knew she was full of shit because she loved drinking less than an hour ago.

She definitely had to get rid of at least half of these steps. Maybe all of them if she remembered how bloody annoying they were when she woke up in the morning. If she could even sleep, that is. It was awfully hard to calm your mind enough to get some shut eye when your body felt like a lightning rod for raw energy. Bloody hell.

Just remember to get rid of the steps.

She still glowed. The white energy flashed with little silver bolts — or it was a figment of her drunken imagination. 

Either way, when she looked down at her hands, it seemed so surreal she wondered if this was a dream. Maybe  _ all _ of it was a dream. The wedding, Portia Malfoy dying,  _ someone _ never showing up, getting absurdly drunk, seeing all her school friends and old teammates — maybe she’d taken a tumble off her broom during Quidditch practice and would wake up with Dent glaring down at her and telling her not to be so bloody stupid-

When she fell a second time, she decided she was  _ definitely  _ getting rid of the steps. Fabulous-looking or not, they would have to go. The aesthetic was worthless if it wasn’t practical. And she was too drunk for this shit. 

Maybe she could just get rid of them now? Sure, she had left her wand with her grandmother (or at least, she hoped she had) but why should that stop her from ridding herself of such a massive inconvenience while drunk?

Glancing behind her, she had to blink tears out of her eyes and rub her hands over her face to squint through the fog and understand what she looked at.

The steps behind her were destroyed. Pulverized to rubble as though someone had blasted each of them apart. The fog swept over them like a blanket, like it wanted to hide the destruction, like it wanted to blindfold her from the chaos.

Well, it was doing a shitty job at that. Once she knew they were destroyed, she  _ felt  _ they were destroyed.

“You suck,” she grumbled at the fog as if it could talk back.

She looked at the steps still in front of her. 

They were untouched. For some reason, this wasn’t surprising.

Pulling herself to her feet, she staggered up a few more and glanced back.

Those steps were now in ruins, fog spinning over them as if laughing with her. Or at her. Stupid, bloody, awful fog.

With a drunken groan, Natalie fled up the remaining steps. She fell for the third time at the very last one, tripping and flinging herself onto the marble entrance platform. As she scrambled and rolled to regain control, she was overcome with a childish feeling that she had just jumped onto a life raft in the middle of a shark-infested sea. Or from one piece of furniture to another, and the floor was lava.

And she was hit with a yellowed memory of jumping between a couch and an armchair, laughing and squealing with her father. 

Her filthy, Muggle, murderer of a father.

There was a rumbling noise as she collapsed onto the smooth marble, in the shadows of the Ionic columns that imposed the front entrance. She knew she now lay in a network of cracked, broken, damaged marble. But she didn’t care.

Unable to bring herself to open the doors — and half afraid she would bring the house down on top of her if she did, she rolled onto her back and stared upwards, sucking in the chilly night air. 

Which was ridiculous, because it was fucking August. Why was it so foggy? Why had the weather been so shitty all day? Storms and such bullshit — nearly ruined the wedding. Thank Merlin for Cassius Malfoy’s manner of living, which required he have a whole fucking ballroom on call whenever necessary. 

God, that was so dramatic. She loved being a Malfoy. They were all so extravagantly outrageous. 

But Merlin, what a shitshow. Why had she drank so much? Dent would  _ kill  _ her if he found out how much alcohol she had stuffed into her body. It was definitely against team rules. She was a professional athlete, not an alcoholic teenager. And they had practice tomorrow, too. Or, today. She knew that Dent knew she was showing up hungover. 

But still. He would be shooting comments at her the entire practice about how irresponsible her behavior was and then she would feel guilty for getting so drunk and then she’d have to work even harder in practice which would only make him obsess over her more- 

A creak, a groan, and two heavy thuds. She felt a slight breeze blow towards her, sending fog dancing about.

The fucking front doors had fallen off their hinges.

Bloody hell.

As long as the Ionic columns remained untouched. She loved the columns. 

They were so handsome and divine. So tall and calm. And now they looked alluring and mysterious with the heavy fog seeping around. She loved them. They felt like ancient Rome. Ancient Rome had a  _ hot _ aesthetic, she’d give Julius Caesar that. It was probably the distinct feeling of unparalleled empire, of hegemony, of power. You can't get much more "I own this shit" than some massive fucking columns and arches. And for some bloody reason, it all reminded her of a certain  _ someone- _

She watched as the marble scrolls at the top of an Ionic column had the fucking audacity to  _ shatter _ . 

Chunks of marble dropped to the ground where she lay. Exploding just before they could smash into her. Merlin, if her drunkenness caused her to obtain an injury — Dent would  _ actually _ kill her. Dust from the destruction blew all around, mingling with the fog and making her cough and wheeze.

“I’ll kill  _ you _ ,” she growled at the damaged column. Now she was mad at it. How fucking dare it  _ stand _ there-

“I’d love to see you try,” a familiar voice had her rolling up to her knees and nearly falling over as she drunkenly swayed, searching for whoever it was.

Squinting through tears, fog, and alcohol, her eyes landed on a tall figure by the opposite column.

This column, which the figure leaned on with the steady ease of an ancient god, hadn’t been destroyed.

She recognized him instantly and found her vision blurred with fresh tears. But these were tears of relief.

Black eyes flashed and Tom Riddle grinned.


	6. July 1945: Found It

Natalie somehow woke up feeling the calmest she’d felt in a while. Which was immediately suspicious because how had she even fallen asleep last night? From drinking? But she didn’t even have a headache from the amount of alcohol she’d consumed. Which was even more suspicious. . . .

“What the fuck,” she muttered without opening her eyes.

Someone snickered.

Her eyes flew open and she made to scramble up but found herself restrained, which only made her want to panic more.

“Calm down,” said Tom Riddle and she froze, gawking like a cornered animal before slumping down on top of him and burying her face in his neck as his arms wrapped around her.

“Where am I?” she finally mumbled, noting he smelled like foreign lands and long journeys. But now she understood why she felt so calm. Sore, but calm. 

“Your bed in the house in Ireland. Nice decor, by the way. I like the green. It’s very tasteful.”

“Thanks. I redecorated it. Mom was killed downstairs. So was my father.”

“Ah. I’m assuming the place didn’t look like a magical demolition zone back then.”

“No, it could have. Mom did dodgy shit but hid it,” she found herself overcome with giggles, tilting her head so her cheek rested on his in order to regale him with a childhood tale. “One time. . . one time, right, she somehow found a unicorn in the woods behind the house — no, shut up, don’t fucking ask how — and she wanted to see if it would give her some of its horn for her potions making, and. . . .”

He curled a few strands of her hair around his fingers and tugged. “And?”

“Nevermind,” she grumbled and hid her face in his neck again. “I just remembered what the dumb Muggle did when he saw it. But, anyway — how’d you know it’s a disaster in here? When did you search the place?”

“Do you not remember giving me a tour of the house last night?”

“Uh, what. . . .”

“It was the worst tour I’ve ever been on. You nearly destroyed everything you pointed at.”

“As long as those stupid steps are gone,” she groaned, rolling over and laying beside him. His arms followed, one slipping under her head, the other playing with the ring hanging around her neck. Somehow the only thing she still had on from last night. “They’re destroyed, right?”

“Yes. I’m surprised you remember that.”

“I told myself to,” she muttered, blinking up at the ceiling. She’d enchanted it to look like the sky. Right now it was pale peach as a sun dawned on the east side of the room. But an enormous crack ran through it, splitting the morning sky in half.

“Who did that?” she lazily asked. “Me or you?”

“That one was me. You challenged me to a duel and then halfway through became too distracted by taking your clothes off.”

“Did I win?”

“No, I definitely won last night.”

“Not fair. You were sober.”

“I was certainly  _ not _ sober being around you.”

“Oh. Yeah, I'm a mental bitch when drunk.”

“Or just an aggressively temperamental one. You tried to ‘somersault down the stairs’ — which you then destroyed — and kept whining about the columns.”

She closed her eyes and moaned. “Oh, shit, the  _ columns- _ ”

“I fixed them.”

Her eyes flew open and she craned her neck to look him in the eye, observing that he was in fact, telling the truth. “Oh. Good. You are useful, then.”

“I will not be repairing the rest of the house. You destroyed it.  _ You  _ can fix it.”

“Ha — I do that everyday,” she sneered, ignoring her own nihilistic humor before closing her eyes and clapping her hands together above her. “Watch this.”

There was a rumbling, what sounded like the scraping, dragging, and bouncing of objects, a low keening noise, a distant surprised squeak of a house-elf, and then silence.

“Fixed,” she opened her eyes, dropped her hands, and peeked up at him. Then pointed at the ceiling above them where the crack remained. “That was yours, though. So  _ you  _ can fix that.”

“Fine,” he smirked and retrieved his wand from where he’d apparently kept it hidden under a pillow. He flicked it and the crack closed, the warm rays of the charmed sky melting over the ceiling.

“Also fix every single bruise on my body and get rid of how sore I am,” she demanded and he scoffed.

“Half of that is  _ your _ fault. Bumbling up the steps like a drunken buffoon-”

“Hey!” she snapped at him, growing taut. “I  _ was _ a drunken buffoon last night.”

“Then why are you arguing?”

“Wait, how much of that did you see?”

“All of it.”

“Oh. Great.”

“It was fabulously entertaining. Besides the fact I felt I might die.”

“I was talking to the column about killing it, not you.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Oh, you mean, like — oh. Yeah. Oops.”

He tugged on her hair and grew sarcastic. “Yes, someone got a bit out of hand last night.”

“Maybe you  _ should  _ have died last night.”

“That would be massively inconvenient for you.”

“It. . . would be — what?”

He smirked and picked up one of her hands, threading his fingers through hers and squeezing. “Last night, the first thing you said to me was that my being in Albania was, and I quote, ‘massively inconvenient for you. Almost as inconvenient as the steps’ existence’.”

She snickered, now trying to squeeze his hand harder than he was squeezing hers. They were silent for a moment as they struggled against each other with this.

“What did you say back to that?” she casually asked while maintaining the pressure against him.

“That it was massively inconvenient for  _ you  _ not to be in Albania with  _ me _ .”

Grinning, she squeezed harder against his hand until he grunted and flung himself on top of her to gain better leverage in the fight they had descended into.

“Cheater,” she muttered but hooked her leg up and forced him off her, rolling on top of him now. 

“Seriously?” he rolled his eyes and they continued rolling over and over, each one flipping the other off only to find themselves underneath the other again. Their hands remained locked together in furious competition, the ring around Natalie’s neck bouncing between them until they came to the edge of the bed and she unknowingly flipped them both off.

“Ow,” she whined as they landed on the floor in a tangle of sheets and limbs. 

“You did this,” he accused as she twisted out from underneath him.

“Shut up,” she said, draping herself in one of the silk sheets like a poorly wrapped Roman toga, sitting up and crossing her legs on the floor. Tom just moved so his head rested in her lap.

She ran a hand through his dark hair and narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s longer.”

He rolled his eyes like a god judging a pitiful mortal. “Yes, hair grows when you don’t cut it.”

“Longer than it was at school.”

“So glad you noticed.”

“I like it.”

“So glad I have your favorable opinion.”

She snorted as his relentless sarcasm. “Shut up. . . wait a minute — how did you find this place? It’s Unplottable. Not to mention the absurd amount of anti-detection charms I invested into it. You can’t get here unless you know-”

He smirked up at her, tugging the sheet off her shoulder until he revealed the ring hanging from her neck. Holding it between two fingers and twirling it around before letting it fall back onto her bare chest.

“Did you think I would just let you walk around with this?”

“Wow, thanks for being  _ so  _ trusting-”

He rolled his eyes as if she had deliberately misunderstood his words. “The ring isn’t the only thing I want to know the location of,” he reached up and grabbed hold of her chin, tilting her head downward and gazing into her eyes. She felt a brief brush of Legilimency and their minds and memories of the past month tangled themselves together.

“You found it,” she raised an eyebrow.

He tore his gaze away and looked past her. She glanced over — on the table beside the bed lay a delicate silver tiara.

“Found it just yesterday,” he said as she pushed him off her lap to run over and inspect the lost Diadem of Ravenclaw. She gently picked it up to weigh it.

“I thought it’d be heavier.”

“It’s a diadem,” he snorted, climbing over and plucking it from her hands. “It’s supposed to be worn on your head.” He placed it on her messy blonde hair and tilted his own head as though studying how it complemented her sheet-toga and flushed skin.

“How do I-” Natalie began a snarky comment but ended up screaming. A piercing bolt of pain shot through her head; she batted the Diadem off and jumped onto the bed, trembling like a cornered animal. Tom managed to catch the Diadem before it fell to the floor, looking at her in bewilderment.

“It. . . it started  _ whispering _ ,” she said, eyes wide. “Not that I  _ heard _ it but — I  _ felt  _ it. . . .”

“It’s supposed to have powers,” he said, studying the innocent-looking tiara in his hands. “Helena Ravenclaw stole it in an attempt to surpass her mother. What was it saying?”

Natalie shivered and pulled the sheet tighter around her. “It wasn’t English. Sounded like Latin. I picked up on a little — something about the acquisition of wisdom and knowledge. . . but. . . .”

“But what?” Tom was fascinated.

“It didn’t feel. . . good,” she winced, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “I don’t think Rowena Ravenclaw had, um, benevolent intentions when she made that. . . .”

Tom ran his thumb over the jewel in the center of the diadem as though it was now speaking to him. “Of course. . . .”

“Yes,” she stated this with so much conviction, Tom glanced over and knew she had the exact same thought process he had just experienced. He smirked as he read precisely what he was thinking in her eyes.

“Rowena wouldn’t make the Diadem to just immediately bestow wisdom and knowledge upon anyone who wore it,” she began, sheet slipping from one of her shoulders as she leaned forward, enraptured by their simultaneous realization.

“That completely contradicts the beliefs of Ravenclaw house,” Tom picked up the vocalization of the train of their thoughts.

She nodded, eyes shining. “To make something that would instantly grant the wearer wisdom — why would Rowena want that? It’s the equivalent of cheating.”

“If anything,” Tom placed the Diadem back on the table. “Its existence would weed out those seeking wisdom for foolish reasons. The greedy, the envious, the weak.”

“And borrowed wisdom — well, that’s not true wisdom then, is it? Borrowed knowledge, borrowed morals, borrowed values-”

“Living on another’s experiences. Usurping what they’ve come to understand, depending on another-”

“Like a parasite. Leaching off the wisdom, knowledge, philosophy, power of another.”

“Never truly living or learning yourself.”

“Never truly becoming yourself.”

“And the founders were educators-”

Natalie grinned in triumph. “Why would they want that?”

“Exactly,” he chuckled, eyeing the Diadem with something like amusement. “Helena Ravenclaw was a fool for believing that stealing the Diadem would allow her to surpass her mother.”

“All it would have done is drive her mental,” said Natalie, settling cross-legged on the bed and tilting her head at the twinkling Diadem. “She envied her mother so much-”

“-that she betrayed her out of spite and stole her mother’s most revered object.”

“Then why did the lie spread that the Diadem bestows wisdom to anyone who wears it? I only had it on for a second but thought my brain was going to explode.”

Tom smirked, sliding onto the bed next to her. He tilted her chin towards him and kissed her until neither of them could breathe. When they bowed to the mandate of their lungs, he said, “you know why.”


	7. July 1945: Jobs, Agents, and Sponsors

“Tom, m’boy!” Headmaster Dippet beamed when Lord Voldemort walked back into the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry a little over a month after having graduated.

“Sit down, sit down! What brings you back — and so soon? Couldn’t stay away from your alma mater?”

Tom plastered a charming smile on his face as he took a seat in front of Dippet’s desk. “You know me so well, Headmaster.” 

“Well, seven years, Tom, seven years,” chuckled Dippet. “Seven years can be a long time.”

“Or not long enough,” said Tom, adding a bit of humor to his voice before growing serious. “I’ve returned, Professor — if you’ll still allow me to refer to you as that — to inquire after a position here at Hogwarts. Professor Merrythought retired last month. . . .”

Dippet’s jovial expression faltered. “Ah, Tom, Tom, you’re young! What — only eighteen?”

“Yes, sir,” he stiffly replied, but already knowing his venture had failed. He could detect Dumbledore in Dippet’s eyes — thwarting his plans. And that annoyed him more than being denied by Dippet. “But I should hope humble skill and a love of Hogwarts might make up for my youth.”

“Indeed they might, but you surely don’t want to return so soon? Travel! Sightsee! Explore the wonders of the world! There’s more to magic than Hogwarts, Tom.” 

Lord Voldemort had no intention of informing Armando Dippet that he had spent the prior month traveling and hated every second of it save the very last bit where he actually found what he was looking for. The rest of it had been a boring, dull, vexing nightmare because he didn’t have Natalie with him. 

Of course, Dippet’s response to his request for a position at Hogwarts wasn’t entirely unexpected.

“Yes, Professor, I suppose there is,” he said, mind churning as different plans began filling the abyss of his mind. Hogwarts could wait for him.

“Take some time,” suggested Dippet with a fond smile. “Learn more. See more. Know more. And then I’m sure in the future Hogwarts would love to have you back.”

Lord Voldemort mechanically smiled. “I hope so, Professor.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Natalie Malfoy stepped off the elevator onto the floor of the Department of Magical Sports and Games and found herself staring at the face of someone she hadn’t seen in years. Except now it was older, experienced, and lined with white scars.

Her jaw dropped. “ _ Crockett _ ?”

Winky Crockett’s grin stretched his face, distorting the scars he did not have when she joined the Slytherin team under him. “Hey, Natalie.”

“What — what’re you doing here?” she asked, flabbergasted at seeing her old Hogwarts team captain. 

“I’m why you’re here, actually,” he said, beckoning her to follow him down the hall.

“Jack Lament asked if I wanted to be your agent for the World Cup,” he explained as she fell into step beside him. “My own playing days are over, after. . . .” he vaguely gestured at his scarred face.

“Er, what, um. . . happened?” she hesitantly asked.

“The ‘42 Cup run. The Semi-Final match was in Germany,” he said with a wince. “Height of the war. I was playing for Ireland back then — us against the bloody Germans. There was a brawl on the field — let’s just say things got, er. . . rough. Germany ended up winning. I still regret that.”

“Bloody hell,” she muttered with a shake of her head. “I hope we don’t play Germany.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t. They’re not even fielding a team.”

“Good.”

He stopped just outside Jack Lament’s office. A blue tornado with broomsticks inside it spun on the Tutshill Tornadoes’ poster pasted to the door. Right next to it was the just-released English national team poster. Natalie locked eyes with her grinning self on the poster and watched herself snatch a tiny Snitch flying along the rippling English flag background.

Crockett cleared his throat, reverting her attention back to him. “Before we go in — can I get an answer?”

“Uh, to what?” she stared at him, seeing Eugene Dent scowl at her from the corner of her eye on the poster.

“Me being your agent.”

“Oh! Bloody hell, of course, Crockett,” Natalie laughed. “Wouldn’t want anyone else.”

“Brilliant,” he grinned and opened the door, ushering her inside. Jack Lament sat behind his desk, stress lining his face. His brother, Matt Lament, the Head of the Department, and Seymour Mulciber, Matt’s assistant, were also present, each with a stack of paperwork.

“Natalie!” Jack Lament jumped to his feet upon her arrival, knocking a pile of parchment to the floor. “Oh, bloody hell-”

“I got it,” said Mulciber and he flicked his wand. The parchment stacked itself neatly back on the desk.

“Thanks, Seymour,” said Jack and he gestured Natalie and Crockett into the office. “Come in! Come in! What’s the decision?”

“She said yes!” Crockett announced as if it was a marriage proposal, making Natalie laugh once again.

“Brilliant,” Matt Lament looked delighted. He had the same red hair and freckles as the rest of the Lament family. “Seymour, give her the pile.”

With a grin, Mulciber dumped a stack of parchment into Natalie’s arms. It was so heavy, she nearly staggered over.

“What is this?” she asked, squinting down at the top sheet of parchment. 

“The companies, businesses, and departments that want to sponsor you,” said Mulciber. “You’re bloody popular.”

“Hell,” she exclaimed, turning and dropping the pile into Crockett’s arms instead. “Here you go, agent.”

Crockett just laughed and immediately started shuffling through the stack of parchment. “I can’t complain. This is my job.”

“Then you’re on the clock, get going,” she joked, making all present laugh.

“Bloody hell, even Borgin and Burke’s wants to sponsor you?” said Crockett in awe, lifting up a fancily-written sheet of parchment from the pile.

“Really?” she asked with interest. 

He waved the parchment at her. “Yeah.”

“Domitia Malfoy is the niece of the original Burke who founded the store,” Jack Lament pitched in with a nod at Natalie. “He still runs the place. Makes sense he’d sponsor.”

“Can I see that one, Crockett?” asked Natalie and he handed the parchment over. She skimmed it. “I think I’ll look into this myself.”

* * *

The bell rang as the door to Borgin and Burke’s flew open. Caractactus Burke Senior glanced up and blinked. An eye-catching blonde witch strolled into the shop, followed closely by a tall, handsome young wizard. Not exactly the usual demographic of his customers.

He squinted. The blonde looked familiar. With her striking facial features and expensive-looking robes, she was definitely a pureblood.

“Hi. . . Uncle,” the witch greeted him with a smile as she approached the counter. Gazing at him with luminous gray eyes, Burke found he couldn’t look away.

He squinted harder. “Theia?”

“Er. . . her daughter,” she inclined her head and extended a hand. “I’m Natalie.”

Burke reached a shaky hand out and allowed her to envelope his wrinkled palm. She shook his hand with vigor, a firm grip — and Caractacus Burke was floating. A warm, buttery feeling enveloped him. Massaging his stiff knees and easing his swollen knuckles. He found himself smiling for the first time in years. He had never met his great-great niece, but she was a lovely witch and he was thrilled to have her in his shop.

“This is Tom,” she unleashed his hand and gestured to the handsome young wizard behind her. “He’s my boyfriend.”

Caractacus Burke reluctantly shook the handsome wizard’s hand. His handshake wasn’t as delightful as Natalie’s — in fact, rather than feeling like he sat next to a soothing fire, Burke felt a shiver run down his spine.

“A pureblood, I hope,” he muttered with a sharp look at his great-great niece. Burke dropped his hand to the counter between them and had the bizarre hope Natalie would pick it up again. 

As if she read his mind, she placed a hand over his gnarled one and gave it a fond little pat. “Only the best for the Malfoy family,” she giggled and produced a piece of parchment from within her tailored robes. She dropped it on the counter and Burke recognized his own handwriting. 

“Thought I’d come myself to go over the terms of this one,” she said, “seeing as we’re family and all.”

“Ah, of course,” this pleased Burke. “You find it agreeable?”

“Certainly. I’m thrilled to have my Uncle’s shop sponsor me in the Quidditch World Cup. Hopefully we’ll bring home the Cup for England. But. . . I was wondering if you could do me two little. . . additional favors?”

Burke’s good mood faltered — the customer always had an extra request, always tried to get the most out of him, always thought they had the high ground. But Natalie squeezed his hand and he found himself recalling that this was his blood relative. If anything — she had inherited the family aptitude for business.

“Depends on what they are,” he muttered, though already knew he would agree. Just sponsoring a pureblooded Quidditch player was  _ anyone’s  _ dream come true. Not to mention, she was his own blood relation. He couldn’t wait to brag about that. Her name was already nearly as known as Cassius Malfoy’s. Burke knew sales were bound to increase. Everyone would want to buy something from a shop whose owner was  _ family _ with Natalie Malfoy.

“First,” she whipped a poster out of thin air with a flourish of her wand. “This is the official English national team poster. Can you hang it up in the store?”

Burke chuckled and reached under the counter. He produced a whole box of the exact same poster and gave her a wry smile. “I already ordered one hundred. Planned to sell them.”

Natalie smirked and Burke received the impression she knew he had the posters all along. This feeling vanished when she reached over and plucked a quill from behind the counter. 

“Then let me increase the value for you — if you grant my last request?”

A smirk on his face now, Burke nodded with the feeling her second request couldn’t be much more than the first. He felt he was getting the better end of these favors anyway.

“Tom here is looking for a job,” she tilted her head at the tall wizard as she began to autograph the posters. “And I know you’re looking for an assistant. I think you’ll find he can be very, ah. . . useful. . . in the sort of work you’re into.”

Briefly wondering how she knew he was looking for an assistant, Burke studied the handsome wizard with dark eyes, who gave him a charming smile under the intense scrutiny. 

“The boyfriend, you say?” he muttered to his niece. He knew he was going to agree but didn’t want to seem too eager about it. Burke was gambling that hiring his niece’s boyfriend meant she would visit the shop more. He wished she would — he had never felt this much relief from his aged, achy joints. Even the wall of leering masks seemed to be grinning with her. Burke had enough experience with magical objects to understand that something about Domitia’s granddaughter was  _ very _ magical indeed. 

“Yeah,” laughed Natalie and she playfully flicked at his hand. Burke trembled as a bolt of what felt like fire crawled up his arm. “I need him so you can’t work him  _ too  _ hard.”

“Suppose he must be half-decent,” he grunted and nodded. “Alright then.”


	8. September 1945: We Don't Eat Ice Cream

“I’ll buy you an ice cream — what flavor do you want? And yes, you can get toppings-”

“Malfoy, I’m older than you and I’m your agent. You can stop talking like I’m some bloody kid you got stuck babysitting,” Winky Crockett reminded Natalie as they approached Florean Fortescue’s in Diagon Alley. Natalie wanted to personally visit “the interesting businesses” which offered to sponsor her. Florean’s being one of them. She left the boring ones for Crockett to take care of.

Natalie scowled. “Fine. . . I can’t eat ice cream, okay? Dent calls it the World Cup Diet. Which is the dumbest, most obvious name ever. If I was captain-”

“You’re not.”

“I know that, Crockett! Anyway, I’d name it something better, at least-”

Winky Crockett stared at her. She’d stopped in the middle of Diagon Alley and stood gawking into the crowd. 

“Malfoy? You alright?”

Natalie shook her head, blinking rapidly for a moment. “Yeah, er, fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

She glanced over at him, curious look on her face. “Are you — do you know Legilimency?”

Crockett dropped his gaze. “Er, yeah. I’m not the best, but-”

“But you can pick up on some things. I just remembered,” she mused, “my first Quidditch match at Hogwarts. I walked into the common room and you asked if I was ready. All I said was yes, but-”

“But I said that I loved your attitude,” Crockett was grinning now. “Then something about you being calm and composed, not letting the excitement get to you, waiting to channel it into the game later.”

“Yeah. . . can’t say I’m calm and composed anymore,” she muttered and glanced back into the crowd. Craning her neck as if looking for someone.

“Who’d you see?” he asked, “not someone you like, I can tell.”

“I’ll have to work on my Occlumency,” she joked.

“Or just your obvious expression of disgust.”

“Oh, yeah, that.”

“So. . . who was it?” he pushed for answers as she led him into Florean’s.

“Someone I went to school with,” she mumbled and handed him the parchment on which the terms of the sponsorship were written. “Here, can you. . . deal with this? I’m gonna get ice cream and not tell Dent about it.”

“He’ll find out somehow,” warned Crockett. 

“Then I’ll just look really pretty and try really hard at practice,” she snapped and moved away from Crockett to place an order at the counter.

After paying for her butterbeer frappe, she decided Crockett, who had disappeared into the back with Florean himself, was competent enough to handle the sponsorship contract, so she stepped out of the store, pulled her cloak over her head and walked straight to Knockturn Alley.

The bell jingled as she stepped into Borgin and Burke’s and flung her hood down to survey the store. Natalie was immediately disgusted. There were  _ people _ inside. And none of them were the person she was looking for.

Her Uncle Burke was haggling at the counter with a customer who seemed convinced he had “Merlin’s actual favorite teapot” at home and was looking to sell it for “at least five thousand Galleons”. It was evident that Caractacus Burke thought this customer was full of shit.

While the customer postulated and Burke shot his every remark down, Natalie browsed the shop, pretending to actually be interested in the “Hand of Glory” and the “Veil of Despair”. Hoping nobody would recognize her as she sipped the butterbeer frappe and planned how she was totally going to gloat about having ice cream to Ricky Webster and Leonard Cadwallader.

Unfortunately, a small gasp interrupted her elaborate schemes and she whirled around to find two young boys excitedly pointing and staring at her.

When her eyes landed on them, they squealed and went to duck behind a tall cabinet.

She snorted and walked towards them, rounding the cabinet and saying, “boo!”

They screamed and fell over each other. Scrambling to their feet yet cowering before her, starstruck.

“What’re you kids doing in here?” she asked, bored and annoyed there was a bunch of children in Borgin and Burke’s and not her boyfriend — who fucking worked there.

“Er, we’re, uh, here with our dad,” mumbled one of the boys.

“Oh, is he the one trying to sell Merlin’s favorite tea pot?”

“Yeah, but we know it’s not  _ actually  _ Merlin’s favorite tea pot,” said the other boy. Natalie assumed they were brothers. They both had curly dark hair, brown eyes and freckles.

“Yeah, we’re not stupid, we know Merlin didn’t drink tea,” his brother, who looked older, piped up, trying to sound impressive.

Natalie stared down at him. “How do you know Merlin didn’t drink tea?”

They both blanched. 

“Well,” began the younger after needing a moment to summon up some courage, “ _ Mom _ drinks tea. Dad doesn’t. So that must mean tea is a  _ witch  _ drink-”

“And Merlin was a  _ wizard _ ,” said the older, sounding very sure of himself.

“Can we get your autograph?” blurted the younger, who then slapped his hands over his mouth. His brother looked ready to murder him on the spot, obviously wanting to wait a bit before working in that request.

Natalie laughed, “sure — if I can ask you two a question.”

“Yes!” exclaimed the older brother, clearly convinced this was an excellent bargain.

“Have you seen another wizard who works here? My age, tall, dark hair that always looks perfect, dark eyes you could stare into all day, more handsome than the devil, excellent vocabulary, might’ve been brooding about something — er, yeah, uh, have you seen him?”

The boys were smirking now, which annoyed her further.

“No, we haven’t seen anyone who’s more handsome than the devil,” said the younger with a mischievous air about him.

“Why?” asked the older, just as mischievously. “Do you  _ fancy  _ him?”

“No!” was her instinctive response, as if she was also eight years old and not dating said wizard. Bloody hell. Scowling, she whipped out her wand (which made the boys flinch) and flicked it. Two square pieces of parchment appeared in the air, each with her signature scrawled on them.

“Here,” she grunted and flung the parchment at the boys. They eagerly snatched them up and darted away into the shop, crowing victoriously to each other.

Now twice as furious as she had been earlier; when she had seen Oberon Talon in the crowd of Diagon Alley, she stalked through the shop towards the front. Loudly slurping on her butterbeer frappe as she approached the counter where Burke was done with haggling but the customer and boys’ father refused to accept that the cracked teapot his wife discovered in the attic was not, in fact, Merlin’s favorite.

The obnoxious noises she made attracted Burke’s attention. He glanced up and spotted her charging towards the counter.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Crabbe, but I must refuse,” repeated Burke, “I’ve no interest in whatever ruddy teapot Mrs. Crabbe found.”

“Yeah, everyone knows Merlin didn’t drink tea,” snapped Natalie and she pounced, leaping upwards and settling herself cross-legged on the counter between Mr. Crabbe and Caractacus Burke. She came very close to both wizards, each taking an instinctive step backwards as her cloak billowed out over the counter.

Natalie aggressively slurped on her frappe again and focused her attention on Mr. Crabbe. She was close enough to observe beads of sweat appear on his forehead and note that his brown eyes were a shade darker than his annoying sons’.

“Hello. I’m Natalie Malfoy. I think I’ve just met your sons. They seem to know an awful lot about Merlin and his distaste for tea.”

“I, uh, yes, er, hello — big fan — uh, my sons, you say? By Salazar-” he turned and frantically peered through the shop. “Vincent! Wesley! Get over here!”

The boys came skittering out from around an aisle full of what looked like blood-stained china. Waving the pieces of parchment Natalie had given them and looking very pleased with themselves.

“Dad, look! We got Natalie Malfoy’s autograph — oh,” the younger boy tripped and fell over his own feet when he realized Natalie was right there. The older quickly leapt over his brother to avoid falling and plastered a look of innocence on his face.

“I assure you, Mr. Crabbe, that parchment is worth more than the chipped monstrosity you’ve been trying to pass off as Merlin’s favorite,” said Burke with distaste. “Now get out of my shop before your sons damage something much more valuable than they can begin to understand.”

“Quite right, Mr. Burke,” muttered Crabbe, who ushered his sons to their feet. He shot a look at Natalie, who raised her frappe in his direction and he swept out of the shop. His sons glancing back and waving at her.

Once they were gone, she spun on top of the counter and met her Uncle’s eyes while chomping on the straw of her drink. 

“Where’s Tom?”

“Out,” said Burke with a chuckle. “I knew Crabbe didn’t have Merlin’s favorite teapot because Tom’s out getting Merlin’s actual favorite teapot from some witch who has no idea what it is, other than that it makes the best tea she’s ever had.”

The straw fell out of Natalie’s mouth in astonishment. “Wait — Merlin actually drank tea?”

“Of course he did,” said Burke, “Now, get off my counter if you aren’t intimidating customers.”

“I wasn’t trying to be  _ intimidating _ ,” she grumbled but climbed off anyway, landing with a sashay on the customer side. “Well, when will he be back?”

“He’s across London, so it depends on how long he needs to convince her it’s useless,” replied Burke with a snigger. Then he held up a pocket watch. “I’ve gotten to timing him, you know. Depending on how easily persuaded the client is, sometimes he’s back in under an hour.”

“I thought I said you couldn’t work him too hard,” she was unable to keep the hiss out of her voice.

Burke dropped the pocketwatch onto the counter with a sudden thud that seemed to echo around the shop. Natalie watched a vein jump in his temple as his pale eyes narrowed. 

“I’m not going to  _ not _ work him,” he snapped at her.

Natalie ran a finger down the chain around her neck and sipped the last of the butterbeer frappe, sucking in a deep breath and sighing. This was her blood relative and a sponsor. It wouldn’t do to infuriate him. 

“Alright, fine. Tell him I stopped by.”

Now he looked disappointed. “You’re leaving?” 

“Yes,” she spun the remnants of foam and ice cream around the bottom of the drink. “I’ve got to get back to my agent. I just, er, wanted to pop in and visit him. . . .”

“Wants to visit the boyfriend but not her own uncle,” Burke muttered as she turned and made to exit the shop. 

Natalie scowled, facing away from Burke so he couldn’t see her expression. She took the liberty of rolling her eyes. Deciding she’d rather not respond, as she was already worked up enough and affecting Burke more would surely just devolve into an explosive argument between them. 

Pretending she hadn’t heard his comment, she stepped out into the coolness of Knockturn Alley and walked right into an anxious Winky Crockett.

“There you are!” he sounded relieved. “I’ve been looking all over. C’mon, I finished with Florean’s but we still have some time to-”

“Forget it,” she interrupted, stomping past him and thinking about how goddamn annoying the day had already been. She couldn’t stand smiling and talking to anyone else. “We’re done. I gotta get back for practice anyway.”

  
  


* * *

“Malfoy. You had ice cream.”

Natalie’s jaw dropped. Eugene Dent, captain of the English national team had just walked into the locker room, took one look at them all, and pronounced this with such certainty she wondered if he had followed her around all day.

“What — how — did you — how’d you know?”

Dent grinned. “Because Caddy is drooling and he only drools over food and fit girls. He doesn’t drool over you anymore because you hexed him the second practice. Ricky only does that exact hand motion,” he pointed over at Ricky Webster, who dropped his hands from his chest immediately. “When’s he’s telling the story about him and the witch who let him lick — er, eat, uh, ice cream, er, from her, uh nevermind — and the Pottingers look constipated.”

Natalie stared at him. “What’s that last bit got to do with anything?”

“The Pottingers are lactose intolerant,” said Dent, his grin widening.

“You didn’t have to censor my story like that,” Ricky looked miffed. “It’s a bloody brilliant story. I can finish telling it-”

“Yeah!” pleaded Caddy.

“No!” Natalie slapped her hands over her ears. “It’s gross!”

“Enough!” ordered Dent and he glared around at them all, now in Quidditch captain mode. “Get on the bloody field. And Malfoy — if I see you slacking-”

“You won’t,” she barked at him, picked up her broom and rushed out. Making sure to slam her shoulder into Dent’s as she walked past him. He stumbled, a shiver ran through him — and he sprinted out after her, leaving Ricky to continue regaling Caddy with his ice cream and a fit witch story.

“Was it at least good ice cream?” he snarked as he and Natalie took the field. She jumped on her broom immediately and hovered a few feet above him.

“Butterbeer ice cream,” she sneered. “If you must know.”

“I do. I know everything about my team. I’m the captain.”

“Yes, you demonstrated that nicely in there.”

“You’re the one who chose to gloat about it to them. Ice cream, though? Really?”

“What?” she hissed, “I was with Crockett in Diagon Alley. Florean’s is sponsoring me!”

Dent scoffed, “they’re sponsoring me too but you don’t see me stuffing dairy products down my throat whenever I get the chance.”

“Seriously? Stuffing dairy products down my throat? Can you be any more dramatic?”

“Yes, actually,” he said and hopped on his broom to join her in the air.

She scowled at him. “Whatever, Dent. I just want to practice.”

“Sure you’re going to be able to practice? Seeing as you lose all self-control the second you see some ice cream-”

“I DID NOT LOSE SELF CONTROL!”

Dent just looked at her as though she’d proven his point. 

She let out a snarl. “Fine. I. . . I got, er, mad about something. . . . Ended up buying ice cream. . . .”

“It’s the little things, Malfoy. You aren’t ever going to be a World Cup champion if you aren’t already acting like a World Cup champion now,” he reminded her, reaching into the pocket of his robes, pulling something out and flinging it at her. She instinctively ducked out of the way.

“MALFOY!” it was now Dent who was yelling. 

Bewildered, she gaped at him. “WHAT?”

“ARE YOU GOING TO DODGE THE SNITCH WHEN WE’RE PLAYING FRANCE?”

“NO!” she turned to note that he had flung a Muggle golf ball at her.

“THEN FOCUS ON THE BLOODY SNITCH!” he roared, pulling another from his pocket and throwing it her way. This one soared right under her unexpecting hand. “MALFOY!”

“THROW ANOTHER!” she yelled back, now focused on the task.

He did. Except he didn’t throw one. He threw three at the same time. The golf balls careened through the air and Natalie let out a string of swears. She knew Dent expected her to catch them all. 

Pulling her broom to the right, she darted after the first. Snatching it out of the air with ease and stuffing it into the inside pocket of her robes before diving for the second. She plucked this one from the air and hurtled towards where the third was now plummeting back down towards the earth.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she ground her teeth and muttered as she fell into a straight dive, reaching out for the golf ball — but a Beater’s bat appeared from nowhere and whacked the tiny ball away.

Nearly falling off her broom, she came to a stop in mid-air and gawked around.

“RICKY!” she shrieked upon spotting the smirking culprit. “WHY’D YOU DO THAT?”

“BECAUSE I TOLD HIM TO!” bellowed the raging voice of Dent. He flew towards her, a brutal look on his face. 

“WHY’D YOU TELL HIM THAT?”

“BECAUSE WINNING THE CUP ISN’T GOING TO BE EASY, MALFOY!”

“I CAUGHT TWO! I WOULD HAVE CAUGHT THREE-”

“BUT YOU DIDN’T!”

“THAT’S  _ YOUR  _ FAULT!”

“ARE YOU GOING TO STAY THERE AND BLAME ME OR ARE YOU GOING TO CATCH THE FUCKING SNITCH?” he stabbed a finger to where Ricky had batted the last ball — it had sailed upwards and was now sailing back down, about half the field away.

Spitting a few choice names at Dent, Natalie wrapped her hands around her broom and took off. Streaking down the pitch, keeping her eye on the falling golf ball. 

She dropped into a dive for the second time, and was about to catch it for the second time, when it was batted away for the second time. Leonard Cadwallader the guilty party this time.

Furious, Natalie turned to spot Dent glaring at her from across the pitch. He hovered in the air, apparently intent on making today’s practice more like “Seeker practice” seeing as the Pottingers were all hanging in the air beside him and Caddy and Ricky looked ready to take Dent’s orders.

“DENT! WHAT THE HELL?” she screamed at him, wind carrying her voice.

She could see his maniacal expression even from her vantage point. And suddenly she understood the perspectives of Lestrange and Dawson when she had been their Quidditch captain. Dent was crazier than her. But that was fine. She could work with crazier than her. 

“WE’RE DOING THIS ALL DAY, MALFOY!”


	9. September 1945: Friends Who Drink Together, Stay Together

“Who’s the dipshit who wrote this?” Natalie Malfoy burst into the study of the Malfoy Manor, waving about the parchment which detailed a sponsorship by the most influential private company in all of Europe, Intrepid Ingredients Inc. Otherwise known as Triple I.

Abraxas Malfoy sat behind the desk and removed his feet from it the moment the door opened. He rolled his eyes upon noting it was only his cousin. 

“First of all, anyone who speaks with that sort of language in here is usually thrown out, so shut your fucking mouth. Second of all, hello, Winky, how are you?”

Winky Crockett had entered the study right behind Natalie and grinned. “Not too bad, Abraxas. How was Venice?”

“Lovely,” said Abraxas with a fond smile at the mention of his honeymoon destination. “But I assume you aren’t here to discuss moonlight gondola rides and the finest Italian wines.”

“I wouldn’t complain if we did,” replied Crockett. “But don’t think the big boss will let me.”

“Who’s the big boss?” asked Natalie, throwing herself into one of the leather chairs in front of the desk and making herself right at home. 

“Big boss is you if you’re mature enough to handle the joke,” snorted Crockett as he took a seat next to her. 

“Doubt it,” muttered Abraxas while Natalie adopted an air of incredible haughtiness, flipping her loose blonde hair and throwing a leg over the arm of the chair. 

“I’m the maturest person I’ve  _ ever  _ met.”

“Then you must not have met many mature people,” taunted Abraxas. “And sit properly. Grandmother would be appalled.”

Natalie straightened, crossing one leg over the other and flaring out the long silken robes she wore. “Well, seeing as I’ve met you — and those hooligans you’ve hired, I’d say you’re right,” she fired back with a smirk. “Where are the hooligans anyway?”

“Gringotts,” said Abraxas, ignoring her comment. “Sent them to visit Giles Morrison. See if he’ll give any clues as to how Gringotts is feeling about Russia. Shouldn’t be too hard. He loves complaining about his job.”

Natalie dropped the pompous banter and tilted her head. “I thought Gringotts hated Russia?” 

Abraxas shrugged. “Gringotts will act in its own self-interest. Their hate can switch to love in an instant if they can strike a deal that works for them.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m not involved,” she hummed before growing lighthearted. “It all sounds dreadful.”

Abraxas surveyed her with a thoughtful expression, tilting his head the same way she had. “You would be more useful than you think. . . .”

It was her turn to shrug before she retrieved a piece of parchment from the inside of her robes and slapped it on the desk between them. “I really just came to talk about this.”

“Grandmother will be disappointed you and Crockett aren’t staying for dinner. And I know there’s two Triple I representatives that will definitely be stopping at the Leaky Cauldron-”

“Okay, obviously, we’re interested in both — but, seriously, who wrote this?”

“Dawson,” said Abraxas, picking it up and examining it. “Wrote it while I was in Venice. . . and. . . er, didn’t want to do anything.” 

“Er. . . oh,” Natalie shifted in her seat, avoiding Abraxas’ gaze. She hadn’t seen her cousin since the wedding and she didn’t want to approach the topic of Portia’s death. Fortunately, neither did Abraxas. She thanked Merlin they were such an emotionally-repressive family. It saved her a lot of awkward conversations.

“What don’t you like about it?” he asked and picked up a quill, ready to edit the terms right there and then.

“Nothing,” Crockett finally jumped in. “She’s fine with it. Just wanted an excuse to visit. Dragged me along to make it more official.”

Abraxas looked at his cousin and sneered, “doesn’t seem very professional of you.”

Natalie glared at him. “Well,  _ sorry _ I wanted to visit before we begin traveling all over the world!”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Abraxas perked up and tugged open one of the desk drawers. He retrieved a large poster and presented it to her. Natalie laughed upon recognizing herself and the rest of the English national team. 

“Grandmother would like this autographed,” requested Abraxas. “By the entire team.”

Natalie snorted as he slid the poster towards her, ignoring Crockett’s snickering. “Sure. Those gits love signing their name on anything offered.”’

“I’m sure you’re no different,” Abraxas rolled his eyes.

“Shut up,” she said and reached for a quill.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson each picked up a shot of Firewhiskey, clinked them together, threw them back, and swallowed them in one gulp.

Lestrange slammed his empty glass on the counter of the Leaky Cauldron. “Alright. I’m ready.”

“Me too,” Dawson copied his actions, licking his lips as he smirked. “You know Abraxas just wants us to wheedle information out of Giles, right?”

“‘Course,” Lestrange snorted and tossed a few Galleons onto the bar. The two then traversed through the dim pub toward the back exit leading to Diagon Alley.

When they stepped into the bustling wizarding alley, the first thing they saw was Natalie Malfoy. But not in the flesh. 

Laughing to each other, they approached the nearest storefront bearing multiple magical advertisements featuring the English national team Seeker grinning and waving in various different robes and outfits sold by the shop.

“Bulstrode’s Befittings is sponsoring her, then, huh,” snickered Lestrange as they studied the shop. The storefront also had one of the official English national team posters plastered to the door, a familiar scrawling signature in the corner of it.

“Quinn works there now, I heard,” said Dawson and he peered into the windows displaying dress robes, work robes, casual robes, and everything in between. 

“No shit, her parents own it,” Lestrange joined him and they waved furiously through the windows until Quinn Bulstrode, who was talking to a customer, spotted them. 

She rolled her eyes but gave the two a wave back.

“When do you think her and Evan are getting engaged?” asked Dawson as they continued on their way towards Gringotts.

“As soon as that idiot realizes she wants to marry him,” replied Lestrange with a laugh. “But definitely before Zack and Pam.”

“But not before you and Savanna,” teased Dawson.

“I’m marrying that witch the second she leaves Hogwarts,” proclaimed Lestrange, stopping in the middle of Diagon Alley and putting a hand over his heart.

Dawson hooted with laughter, then doubled over and nudged Lestrange to look at the next store that sponsored Natalie Malfoy.

“Why does she look so bloody annoyed?” Lestrange sniggered and they darted over to Ollivander’s wand shop to laugh at the poster pasted to the front window. It displayed a disgruntled Natalie Malfoy, sitting on a hovering broom with both legs swung over one side, spinning a wand between her fingers.

“Probably because this suggests you can use magic during a Quidditch match,” joked Dawson and Lestrange barked a laugh, opening his mouth to reply but was cut off by a cold voice.

“Or because she never bought her wand from Ollivander’s.”

Adolphus Lestrange whipped around to find Lord Voldemort wearing the same expression one would have when behind someone who walked far too slow for one’s own busy schedule. Lestrange nearly tripped in his surprise, flinging out a hand and snatching hold of Dawson’s robes to steady himself. His actions almost caused Dawson to topple over with him.

Tom Riddle watched them with mild amusement. “Do you have to act like fools in the middle of the busiest place in the entire wizarding world?”

“Uh, yes, I mean, no,” said Dawson as Lestrange steadied himself. 

“What are you two doing here, anyway?” Riddle inquired, eyes drifting to study the same poster they had just been laughing at. “Besides gawping at posters of the English national Seeker?”

“Er, we’re technically doing business. You?” asked Lestrange.

“Business,” Riddle repeated the word, eyes flicking between them before his face morphed into an expressionless mask. “When’s the wedding?”

Lestrange blanked. “What?” 

“Your’s and Savanna’s.”

“Oh, er, I dunno the exact date yet-”

Tom Riddle snorted as though Lestrange was a complete idiot. “Well, don’t go around telling everyone you’re marrying her when you haven’t even got the date picked yet.”

“Uh, how does, er, August fifth sound?”

“Sounds like it’s in the middle of the Quidditch World Cup.”

Dawson’s jaw dropped as he stared at Tom Riddle, someone who was not known to be well-versed in Quidditch knowledge and lore. “How do you  _ know  _ that-”

Lord Voldemort just gave him a look as if questioning his intelligence. Dawson flushed a brilliant red. 

“Oh, er, right, of course-”

“I’m reminded every time I see her,” he droned and stepped to move past them and on his way.

“Wait, when’s the last time you saw her?” Lestrange eagerly asked, “we haven’t seen her since Abraxas’ wedding and that was over a month ago.”

He looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow as though they ought to know better than to ask him questions of that kind. Then his black robes melted out of their sight, leaving Dawson and Lestrange staring after him.

“When do you think  _ they’re  _ getting married?” Lestrange finally asked after a moment. 

“Dunno!” Dawson loudly snapped.

At the outburst, Lestrange gave him a pointed look. “You. . . still fancy her, don’t you?”

“No!”

“Eric. . . .”

“Shut up. Do you think he can tell?”

“If I can, he definitely can.”

“Great,” muttered Dawson. “That’s just great.”

“What’s great?” for the second time that day, another voice joined them.

They turned to spot Evan Rosier and Zacharias Nott standing behind them, dressed in their official Ministry attire and looking very aggravated.

“Nothing,” Dawson hastily said. “Where are you lot coming from?”

“Gringotts,” replied Nott, looking none too happy about this. 

“That’s where we’re off to,” Lestrange gave them a suspicious look. “What’s the Ministry doing sending its two youngest interns to Gringotts?”

“Russia,” grunted Rosier and he gestured to Dawson. “Seamus wanted us to tell Gringotts that the Ministry is thinking of imposing some restrictions on the bank’s negotiations with the Soviets.”

“We got kicked out by goblins after being there for five minutes,” Nott informed them with annoyance.

“Well, obviously,” said Dawson, as though he wondered why they were so upset.

Everyone stared at him until he scowled and continued. “My Dad knows it’s stupid to try to impose anything on Gringotts. We already restrict goblins enough, it’s useless to try to go after Gringotts as well.”

“So then why’d he bother sending us?” demanded Rosier, now looking very ticked off.

Dawson rolled his eyes. “Probably to get a feel for what way they’re leaning. That’s what we’re going to do for Triple I right now.”

“Well, all I got out of it was that goblins hate the Ministry and they hate Russia and they only seem to like making sure their name and credit don’t get damaged,” Nott summed up sourly.

“They don’t hate Triple I,” Lestrange bragged with a toss of his dark hair. “We hate Russia just as much as Gringotts hates Russia.”

“At least you got something going for you,” grumbled Rosier. “Anyway, we’re going to see Quinn and then getting drinks at the Leaky — you lot want to join later?”

“We just did both of those things but hell yes,” Dawson grinned, visibly brightening up. 

“Brilliant,” said Nott, “see you two later then.”

Lestrange and Dawson farewelled their friends and continued towards the snowy white marble of Gringotts bank, not quite sure what they should be prepared for.

“At least we’re meeting with Giles, not goblins,” muttered Lestrange as they entered the cool building and headed towards the offices. 

Dawson handed a security goblin a stack of parchment. The goblin shuffled through it for a moment before grunting and leading them through the bank to the offices. 

“Morrison,” said the goblin once he stopped outside a closed door bearing the name “Giles Morrison” on it. The door clicked open as if expecting their arrival and the Triple I representatives stepped in. 

“Oh,” upon sighting them, Giles Morrison settled back in his seat. “It’s you two. Come in and sit.”

“Who were you expecting?” asked Dawson, though he knew the answer.

“Russian delegation,” said Morrison with barely disguised annoyance as they settled into the comfortably cushioned seats in front of his desk. There was an absurd amount of parchment stacked onto the desk, separated into little piles and color-coded using some obscure organizational system.

Lestrange grinned and launched into the real reason for their visit. “Well, we aren’t them. Things still dodgy with the Soviet Union? Last we heard you said they were bringing in all sorts of ridiculous things for collateral.”

“Yes,” Morrison rolled his eyes and snatched up a piece of parchment from the desk. “I can tell you this because it’s so ludicrous even the goblins are making fun of it. They want to use some sort of enormous explosive bomb, some Muggle invention, as collateral for a loan for fifty million Galleons.”

“Fifty?” Dawson gaped at the number. “Triple I isn’t even asking that much!”

“That’s not even what’s funny about it,” Morrison tossed the paper back onto his desk and crossed his arms. “They forgot to mention that whatever Muggle device — they refer to it as an atomic bomb — hasn’t even been invented by them yet.”

Lestrange and Dawson laughed at this. 

“Why are they trying to use Muggle inventions as collateral? Not saying that a giant bomb doesn’t sound fun, but, still,” Lestrange looked dumbfounded.

“They insist it’s going to change the world,” Morrison was clearly unconvinced, forehead lined with irritation. “All we really care about is that they don’t have it and that we don’t have a use for it.”

Dawson tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “I’m sure the goblins would find some reason to be interested in it, right?”

Morrison shrugged. “I’m sure they would too but I spent two weeks in Russia just to find out that they don’t have the actual bomb yet.”

“Muggles are awfully obsessed with bombs, huh,” realized Lestrange, glancing between the other two. “Didn’t America just drop a bunch of huge bombs?”

“Yeah, America developed this atomic bomb. Finally ended their bloody war,” said Morrison with a shake of his head. “But now Russia is panicking and developing their own — as if they can afford to do so.”

“Are we talking about Muggles or wizards in Russia, because I can’t tell anymore,” Dawson sheepishly smiled.

“Honestly, neither can I,” sighed Morrison. “But if you two are here to find out if we’ve given them a loan — the answer is we definitely have not.”

“Don’t want to use giant bombs as collateral, huh,” snickered Lestrange. “If I was running this show, I might consider it.”

Dawson gave him a pointed glance. “A  _ Muggle  _ bomb.” 

“Oh, right. Nevermind then,” an amused look came over Lestrange’s face. “This is like Russia trying to use Natalie as collateral — imagine that. Liable to just blow up on you whenever.”

“We’d definitely rather have her as collateral,” Morrison chuckled, leaning forward to place his elbows on his desk and rest his chin in his hands. “At least we know she’s actually useful and worth a bloody lot.”

Dawson shook his head. “I can’t believe she’s on the bloody national team and she didn’t even  _ tell _ us.”

“The players weren’t supposed to, you git,” Lestrange rolled his eyes but grew excited at the mention of Quidditch. “They’re going over to play France for the first game in a few days. It’s definitely a guaranteed win. How’s  _ that  _ for collateral?”

Morrison smirked and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms and looking rather smug. “Brilliant, but Gringotts would be more interested in the fact that she’s estimated to be worth almost as much as Triple I from her sponsorships alone.”

Dawson let out a slow whistle. “That much, huh?”

“They’ve barely even  _ begun _ the Cup run,” Lestrange looked flabbergasted. “How’s that even possible?”

Morrison seemed exceptionally self-satisfied as he moved some papers around on his desk. “Well, let’s see — she’s the only pureblood Quidditch player on an English national team that was handpicked by Jack Lament — who won the Cup himself twice when he played — she’s young, bloody attractive, and between the three of us, we know there’s something a bit  _ more _ about her. Who wouldn’t want to sponsor her?”

“Is Gringotts sponsoring her?” asked Dawson with suspicion.

Morrison grinned, delighted at the question. “Yes. I wrote the contract myself.”

“How come you haven’t got any posters hung up around here?” Lestrange raised an eyebrow. “All the businesses have them.”

Turning to check the ornate clock on the wall behind him, Morrison pointed at it and explained, “expecting them to arrive before the end of the day. So are the Russians, but they’ve never been on time to anything yet.”

“Shocking,” remarked Dawson with heavy sarcasm. He shared a glance with Lestrange and they both stood to leave. 

“We’ll let you get on with that serious business,” remarked Lestrange. “If the Russians don’t ever show up, feel free to stop by the Leaky. Us, Zack, and Evan will be there, toasting to the success of the English team. And maybe to some Muggle bombs. Who knows.”

“Might take you up on that,” said Morrison, looking very much like he needed a drink.

Lestrange and Dawson laughed and slipped out of the office, leaving Morrison to his thoughts.

Not long after they left, the door opened again. Morrison glanced up, irritated at the failure to knock by whomever had entered.

But this was quickly explained, as a goblin hobbled into the office, carrying a large box.

“Bunch of these just showed up for you,” announced the goblin, heaving the box onto Giles’ desk and sending the meticulously organized stacks of parchment collapsing all over each other.

Morrison held his tongue as his carefully constructed system was destroyed before his eyes. The goblin was called Agnel. He was the son of Kregmar, who was technically Giles’ boss. All it really meant was that Agnel ran around the wizard liaison offices, ruining everybody’s day and getting away with it because his father would fire anyone who dared speak a word against his son.

“Thanks, Agnel,” said Morrison, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Agnel just grunted and climbed onto the chair Dawson had been sitting in. Leaning over and slicing open the box with his razor sharp nails. Morrison contented himself with watching the young goblin open the box and inspect its contents.

“Oh,” Agnel sounded disappointed as he peered inside. “It’s those posters you wizards are disturbingly fond of. Thought it might be some Russian gold.”

“The Russians haven’t got any gold,” sighed Morrison. He already knew the expected Russian delegation wasn’t showing up. Maybe he would leave a bit early and head over to the Leaky. . . .

Agnel ignored Morrison as if he hadn’t spoken. Which was his usual behavior. Picking up the topmost poster, the goblin inspected it with beady black eyes.

“That’s her then,” said Agnel, turning the poster and shoving it in Morrison’s face. A stumpy finger tapped the grinning Natalie Malfoy. “Our newest asset?”

“Yes,” replied Morrison, well-accustomed to the goblin obsession over their “assets” and “property”.

“Don’t know why my father trusted your judgement on this one,” Agnel said rather nastily. “Gringotts hasn’t sponsored a professional Quidditch player in decades. Last time we did, the player died. Then you come along and talk this one up just because you went to school together.”

“It will pay off,” Morrison ground his teeth. He always had a problem keeping his temper under control when Agnel was around. “Your father was  _ very  _ pleased with it. Especially when she came herself to sign the contract.”

Agnel dropped the poster back into the box and jumped down from the chair. Once again ignoring Morrison’s words. He went to amble out of the office, but pulled himself to a stop right in the doorway, making sure to scrap his sharp nails against the doorframe, effectively ruining the woodwork. 

“Oh, my father wanted me to tell you that the Russians won’t be coming in today.”

“Knew it,” sighed Morrison, but Agnel had already vanished.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I need you to go in before me, and don’t make a scene, and don’t look at anyone, and don’t make eye contact-”

Abraxas Malfoy scoffed over Natalie’s increasing demands. They stood outside the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, ignoring the spitting rain that dampened London that evening. Winky Crockett had taken leave after Domitia Malfoy kept them at dinner longer than expected, and the two cousins decided to drop in at the Leaky Cauldron.

“You’re not the only one who’s well-known in the wizarding world.”

She scowled at him. “Yeah, well, we’ll see who has their face plastered all over posters when we walk in.”

“The Leaky is sponsoring you?” snorted Abraxas with a shake of his head. “What, do you have to publicly announce it’s the favorite spot of the national team for post-game drinks?”

“No, but I do eat here a lot,” she grudgingly admitted. “Sometimes I’ll bring some of the team. Do you know how many autographs I’ve signed? Tom says they’ve made more money the past month than they have in years just from people coming in to get a look at us all.”

“Tom?”

“Not mine. Bartender Tom.”

“Ah, yes. Yours doesn’t like to be referred to as-”

“Of course he doesn’t,” she snapped and gestured at the door. “Are you gonna go in?”

Abraxas rolled his eyes but stepped forward anyway. “Yes,  _ princess _ .”

“Don’t know why everyone calls me that,” she muttered as she followed him in. “Not like we’re actual royalty or anything.”

“Depends on how you define royalty,” he shot back, “but it’s also because you’re a bloody prima donna.”

“Am not,” she growled as they stepped into the dark pub. Her manner morphed from annoyance to smugness as a national team poster came into view on the wall beside the door.

Flouncing over, she slapped a hand against it and turned to Abraxas. “Don’t see you on here. . . that’s funny. . . .”

“OI! No climbing on the bar!” a voice called out, drawing her attention across the pub. The bartender, Tom, was waving his hands and running over to where two wizards were attempting to climb over the bar and hide behind it. Several others sitting in stools around the bar weren’t bothering to hide their laughter at this.

She recognized all the wizards instantly. So did Abraxas. The two cousins shared a look between themselves before stalking over. 

“Hello, Giles,” Abraxas greeted his former classmate, sliding onto the barstool beside him.

“Abraxas,” Morrison nodded, still chuckling at Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson. Natalie hopped onto one of the empty stools and peered over the bar to where the two were attempting to hide.

“What’re you afraid to be seen drinking now that your boss is here?” she called down to them. On her left, Evan Rosier held his hand up and she high-fived him with a snort. On Rosier’s other side, Zacharias Nott slid his goblet down towards her.

“Can’t drink,” she told him, “national team rules.”

“Boring,” Nott snorted but had no issues finishing his drink.

“Oh, hey, what’re you doing here, princess?” Lestrange popped up from behind the bar and pretended to ignore Abraxas. Dawson stood beside him, snatching up a clean glass.

“Can we get you anything to drink?”

“You two don’t work here,” Tom the bartender snapped at them, scurrying behind the bar and shooing them away. “Go on.”

Reluctantly, the two trooped around and claimed the empty stools beside Natalie.

“Oh, hey, what’re you doing here, Abraxas?” repeated Lestrange, this time sounding much more nervous.

“I knew you two were going to come here,” Abraxas rolled his eyes and gestured for Tom to make him a drink.

“This is the second time today,” muttered Tom before he gave Natalie a brilliant smile. “Hello, my dear, can I get you anything?”

“Just water today,” she returned the smile as Abraxas shot Dawson and Lestrange a sharp look. They shrugged, innocence plastered over their faces.

Tom the bartender placed a glass of water before her and a glass of gin before Abraxas. Natalie took a sip and eyed the group sitting around her. Abraxas, Morrison, Dawson, Lestrange, Nott, Rosier-

“We saw him today,” Lestrange whispered to her. He sat on her immediate right, just as they had at school. “In Diagon Alley. Said he had business to do.”

“Why didn’t you invite him here?” she asked in annoyance and gestured to the others. “Seems like you invited everyone else.”

“Er, well-” he hastened to explain but was interrupted by someone popping up right behind them. Natalie spun on the stool to face whoever it was, instinctively leaning towards Adolphus. At the same time, Lestrange turned and snatched the hand that had stretched out to tap her shoulder.

The two stared at the stunned wizard for a moment before relaxing.

“You’re Lancelot Prewett,” said Lestrange, releasing the wizard’s wrist and recognizing him. He wore Healer’s robes and looked as though he’d just finished a particularly grueling shift at St. Mungo’s.

“That’s me,” he shuffled nervously under their gazes — and now the gazes of all the others at the bar. “Didn’t, er, mean to frighten you. . . .”

“It’s alright,” Natalie faked a smile, reading the flickers in his chocolate brown eyes. “You want an autograph?”

A smile appeared on his face. “Er, yes, if it’s not too much trouble. For my nephews. . . .”

“Sure,” she said, flicking her wand and producing a quill and a pot of ink. Dawson slid a napkin her way. She tapped it with her wand and it morphed into a stiff piece of parchment.

“What are their names?” she asked, quill poised over the transfigured parchment.

“Fabian and Gidgeon,” said Lancelot with excitement. 

With a nod, she wrote the two names, the first generic Quidditch-related statement she could think of, sketched a little drawing of a Snitch (ignoring the snickering and commenting from her former teammates at her art skills), then added her looping signature which she was now so accustomed to making. Despite it looking different every time she scrawled it on something. Dent’s autograph always turned out the same, she had no idea how he managed that.

“Here,” she held out the parchment to him.

“Thank you!” Lancelot exclaimed, accepting the parchment as though it was a priceless artifact. He dipped into a slight bow, sent a nod at Abraxas, and vanished into the smoky pub. 

“Ahem,” Lestrange grabbed her attention by clearing his throat. A smirk on his face, he pushed a napkin towards her. “Excuse me, princess, can  _ I  _ get a personalized autograph?”

“And me?” whined Dawson, flinging another napkin her way.

“And me!” Rosier added yet another napkin to the pile

“Me!” called Nott and a fourth napkin joined the stack.

“We don’t want personalized autographs,” Abraxas spoke for himself and Morrison. “Because we’re not five years old.”

Natalie glared at the four wizards her age. “Seriously, you lot?”

They gave her pleading looks until she sighed and acquiesced.


	10. September 1945: "City of Love"

Natalie Malfoy hadn’t even been in Paris for twenty four hours before she was woken up by a loud banging on the door of her hotel room. It was one of the most luxurious private hotels in Paris that was, thankfully, being run entirely by wizarding staff while the national team was in town. What wasn’t luxurious, however, was the ridiculous pounding on her door that caused her to jump awake and fall off her bed.

Prowling across the room wearing nothing but an enormous t-shirt that went down to her mid thigh, she yanked the door open and blearily peered out into the hallway to spot Eugene Dent. 

“Dent, it’s four in the bloody morning, what the fuck do you want?”

His pale eyes flicked over her and he turned bright red before he found a spot over her shoulder very interesting. “Uh, we’re, uh, we’re having mandatory team nap later. . . . you can sleep then.”

“Oh, excuse me, is that before or after mandatory team lunch?” she couldn’t resist being sarcastic at four in the morning and after he so blatantly checked her out. “Or did you want to have mandatory team date underneath the Eiffel Tower?”

Dent scowled, “just get dressed Malfoy. We’re doing team bonding activities and then getting mandatory team breakfast.”

She paused, a smirk breaking over her face. “Does this involve waking everyone else up?” If she could ruin Ricky Webster’s beauty sleep, waking up at four would be worth it.

“Well, the team has to be  _ awake  _ to participate in team bonding activities,” he snarked and took a step back, signaling their conversation was over. “Get dressed.”

“Let me wake Ricky up,” she demanded.

“Fine.”

“Yes!” she squealed and slammed the door shut. Rushing all around the room to get ready before flinging the door back open. Dent was leaning against the wall, running a hand through his cropped dark hair and looking regretful that their first game was in Paris of all places.

“I’m waking Pretty Ricky, you can wake the Pottingers,” she said as they hurried down the carpeted hall. It was silent at this hour but her excitement was mounting. “Caddy is anyone’s game.”

“I’m the captain, Malfoy. That means I give the orders,” Dent said with feigned annoyance. “But fine.”

She flew to a stop outside Ricky Webster’s door and began pounding on it with the same amount of force Dent had used on her door. 

When her hand started getting sore, she yelled, “Ricky! Open the damn door-”

The door popped open a crack and a blue eye appeared, blinking at her in confusion. 

“Wake up-” she began but the door was thrown open and Ricky Webster gave her a sultry smile. He wore only a silk bathrobe, with nothing underneath, and he hadn’t even bothered to tie it at the front.

“Beautiful! You’re a little late but we can restart the party-”

“Webster!” she slapped a hand over her eyes, turned and tried to stumble back down the hallway while shrieking, “Dent! Ricky’s bloody naked and wants to shag me!”

“Why is that so shocking?” came the not at all surprised voice of the team captain. “Webster, get dressed and tell whatever French girl you have in there to go home. We’re having team bonding time and then heading to practice.”

“Team bonding can happen in my bed-”

“Webster, now.”

Ricky grumbled but retreated into his room and closed the door with a click.

“You can look, Malfoy.”

Natalie uncovered her eyes to stare at Dent standing directly in front of her, his icy blue eyes studying her with a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

“You knew that’d happen,” she immediately accused him.

He shrugged, “maybe. But it got you out of bed, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, and almost into Webster’s bed.”

Leonard Cadwallader stepped out of the room next to Ricky’s and his jaw dropped, eyes bulging as he glanced between Natalie and Dent. “Malfoy slept in Webster’s bed?”

“No,” Natalie rolled her eyes.

Caddy looked bewildered. “Webster slept in Malfoy’s bed?” 

Natalie made gagging sounds while Dent sighed, “no, Caddy. . . .”

* * *

  
  


“Dent. . . do we  _ have _ to-”

“Shut up, Ricky,” snapped Eugene Dent as he led them to the foot of the Eiffel Tower and stated he had gotten them special permission to climb it all the way up.

“But we haven’t even eaten breakfast!” Ricky continued to whine as the Quidditch team stared at their determined captain.

Dent made to bark a response but was interrupted by a loud scoffing sound.

Natalie Malfoy rolled her eyes, slammed Ricky on the shoulder and skipped past Dent, heading towards the lower staircase. 

“Anyone who beats me to the top can get. . . a  _ kiss _ . . . .” she leered back at the team with a wink and darted up the stairs.

“How about a shag?” shouted Ricky as Leonard Cadwallader and Eugene Dent took off after her. Ricky, grumbling and reluctant, followed them. The Pottingers brought up the rear.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend, Malfoy?” Dent called from right behind her as they sprinted up the stairs. 

“Yes,” she said and moved faster. The rest of the team hurrying to keep up. 

“So isn’t kissing one of us cheating on him?”

“You’re assuming one of you is going to beat me,” she sneered over her shoulder, smirking as he began falling behind. Caddy was on his heels, with Ricky not too far behind. The Pottingers were the only three who didn’t care about this little competition. Either because they were married, or had immediately understood it wasn’t a real competition.

Dent grunted and began gaining on her. 

Somewhere between halfway and the top, their pace collectively began to slow as muscles started screaming and lungs started heaving. 

“I think — it should be — a shag,” Ricky said between breaths, “this is. . . hard. . . .”

Natalie still led the team, though Dent and Caddy were competing right behind her. “At your rate,” she huffed, “you won’t get anything.”

Ricky made an irritated noise and started gaining on Dent and Caddy. Though out of the corner of her eye she saw Dent move to block Ricky from overtaking them. She had the distinct feeling Dent finally realized this was all just a farce to get the team to actually climb the Tower and grinned to herself. Caddy and Ricky were too stupid to understand and the Pottingers didn’t care. 

It wasn’t long before they neared the top, dripping with sweat and gasping for breath.

Natalie was about to take the last few steps up when she felt someone grab at her robes, heard Dent snarl something, and she went crashing down to the steps. Caddy tripped over her with a yelp — she ducked as he tumbled down beside her, narrowly missing crushing her head.

“RICKY!” Dent was having a conniption. As Natalie rolled to her feet she saw Dent standing just behind her, glaring at Ricky Webster, who had leapt over her and stood proudly at the top. Ricky must have pulled her down to beat her to the top and Dent was flipping out about it.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Dent yelled at Ricky while simultaneously trying to fuss and worry over Natalie, grabbing her face, shoulders, and hands to check for injuries. Natalie pushed him away and dusted her robes off, completely unharmed. 

“SHE COULD HAVE GOTTEN HURT! WHAT THEN? WE WOULDN’T HAVE A SEEKER! WE HAVE A MATCH TO PLAY IN A FEW DAYS AND YOU’RE GOING AROUND ACTING LIKE A COMPLETE IDIOT!””

“I wanted to win the bet,” preened Ricky, oblivious to the frothing captain. “Now Malfoy has to shag me.”

“Malfoy’s shagging Ricky?” Leonard Cadwallader, perpetually airheaded, gaped from where he was still sprawled out on the stairs.

“No, Caddy,” Natalie just sighed, stepped over Cadwallader and up to where Ricky was flexing his muscles and trying not to look out of breath.

“Hey, beautiful-” he began to croon but Natalie drew her fist back and punched him directly in the mouth.

“OW!” he yelped and dramatically dropped to the floor as the Pottingers started snickering from where they’d sat on the stairs, stretching and catching their breath.

Dent now directed his fury on Natalie. “MALFOY!”

She turned to the team captain, innocent smile on her face as a vein throbbed in Dent’s temple.

“Yes, Eugene?”

“YOU — DON’T — DON’T CALL ME EUGENE!” he spluttered as Ricky spat out a few bloodied teeth and started moaning and lisping on the floor.

“She  _ punched  _ me! Me! She punched  _ me _ ! My face! My teeth! My gorgeous smile! I have to retire! This is it! It’s all over! We’ve lost the Cup already and we haven’t even played in the first round! My smile!”

The Pottingers snickers grew louder and Dent’s face grew redder.

“ALRIGHT!” he roared, glaring around at them all. “EVERYONE STOP HURTING EACH OTHER!”

“But nobody’s hurt?” Natalie crossed her arms and gave him an overly confused look. “What are you talking about, Eugene?”

“MALFOY!”

“Who’s Eugene?” asked Caddy, still lying on the top few stairs, sweat dampening his robes and turning his flop of brown hair a slick black. 

“MY TEETH!” blubbered Ricky from the floor, upset at the lack of attention being given to him.

“SHUT UP!” Dent yelled, stomping up the last few stairs and whipping out his wand. “Stop moving, Webster, or I’ll permanently ruin your smile!”

Rolling her eyes as Ricky continued wailing, Natalie moved away from her ludicrous teammates and went to take in the view of the city. It was still dark at the early morning hour but spots of light and movement buzzed around the cosmopolitan hive of activity. Even in the blackness she could tell where the city had suffered from the Muggle war. Such a waste.

“Malfoy promised me a kiss!” Ricky’s whining had her turning back to face the team. 

“Yes, and you received one,” she snapped, crossing her arms and glaring. Thanks to Dent’s quick spellwork, Webster’s smile had returned to normal. Apparently so had his ego.

Ricky looked flabbergasted. “What? No-”

“She punched you in the  _ mouth _ , idiot,” grunted Dent but the captain looked somewhat impressed. Noticing this, Natalie smirked and Dent instantly morphed his face into a scowl.

Cadwallader, lying on the floor between everyone, raised a hand. “Er, so is it  _ normal _ to punch someone when you kiss them too? Like, do blokes do that or is it just a witch thing-”

“It’s just a Malfoy thing,” Dent rolled his eyes.

“Yeah because she’s a bitch,” retorted Ricky, who now appeared cheated.

Natalie cooed and batted her eyelashes to excess. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me, Ricky.”

“Not true,” Ricky looked miffed. “One time I said you had nice-”

“Alright!” Dent interrupted loudly. “Who wants breakfast?”

Instantly, everyone fell silent and raised their hands. 

“Brilliant. Let’s go then.” He moved towards the stairs, but Ricky dashed out ahead of him.

Sending a pointed look at Natalie, he shouted, “anyone who beats  _ me _ can actually get to shag me!” and he darted off down the stairs, the Pottingers hastily moving out of his way.

Nobody else moved. Natalie began humming to herself. Dent looked like he sincerely regretted waking everyone up at four in the morning just to climb the Eiffel Tower. And Caddy, as always, gaped around, clueless. 

After a few moments, a voice floated back up to them. 

“Uh, hello, are you lot coming? Malfoy, don’t you want a chance to shag me?”

“Oh  _ no _ ,” she called back, sarcasm so heavy Dent rolled his eyes and the Pottingers fell over themselves with laughter. “ _ How _ could I pass up the opportunity to shag the famous  _ Ricky Webster _ ?”

Cadwallader turned to gape at her. “You’re passing up that opportunity?”

“Yes, Caddy, I am,” she said, voice now sounding as if she spoke to a toddler.

“Let’s go, you lot,” growled Dent and he stomped towards the stairs. “Enough acting like children.”

“Thought you wanted us to team bond?” Natalie asked as she followed him down. 

“Yes,  _ bond _ — not engage in some stupid competition only to end in you nearly getting hurt and then punching Ricky in the face.”

“He needs a good sock in the face every so often. Keeps him in check.”

“As much as I agree with the theory behind that, the practice of it might be detrimental to the team overall. I need Beaters who can actually see.”

“I punched him in the  _ mouth _ . And he pushed me,” she reminded him with annoyance as they began thundering down the stairs. Caddy and the Pottingers following. Going down was much easier than going up.

“And I need a Seeker who can actually catch the Snitch,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t know why you lot are so intent on hurting each other.”

“Tell him to stop being stupid then,” she demanded, ignoring the sniggering of the Pottingers behind her. It unnerved her. They hadn’t said a word. Just laughed under their breath. She picked up the pace, flying down the stairs side-by-side with Dent now.

“What, do you actually want to shag Webster?” he remarked as she started to pass him.

“Yeah, totally,” she shot back sarcastically.

The team was silent as they descended the rest of the way. They found Ricky Webster checking his wavy blond hair and smiling at himself in a small pocket mirror which he had seemingly procured from nowhere.

“Well,” he snapped the mirror shut and tucked it away in his pocket when they arrived. “None of you beat me. Too bad, Malfoy. Last night Celeste said I was the best-”

Natalie pulled her wand out and flicked it at Ricky. His jaw clicked shut and he turned red as her spell took effect.

“Oh, lock jaw? Nice one,” muttered one of the Pottingers. Natalie whipped around to stare.

“Which of you said that?” she demanded.

“Ted,” said one.

“Tommy,” said another.

“Tucker,” said the third.

Natalie sucked in a breath, muscles taut. “What the fuck?”

“Okay,” Dent said with caution. He grabbed the sleeve of her robes and tugged her away from gawking at the Pottinger triplets. They just looked as smug and unassuming as usual. “Let’s go. . . .”   
  


* * *

Ricky Webster, through a series of aggressive and flamboyant hand motions, convinced Dent they ought to shower before heading to breakfast. Natalie then sneered that she wanted to wash off “Essence of Pretty Ricky” which  _ obviously _ tainted her when she had punched him.

To avoid another in-team conflict, Dent grudgingly agreed.

By seven o’clock, they were piled around an outside table at a French  café , having ordered half the menu. It was a Muggle  café , which meant they had to wear Muggle clothing and attempt to not act like a bunch of internationally renowned Quidditch players.

Natalie was not at all pleased to find out that when in public around Muggles, the official protocol was for the Quidditch team to wear Muggle football clothes and act like a professional Muggle football team. It reminded her too much of her dead Muggle football-playing father. And as if for no other purpose other than to add salt to the wound — the shirts they had been supplied with were from her father’s old team. 

“See, Malfoy’s all mad and upset because she didn’t get to shag me,” remarked Ricky as he shovelled eggs into his mouth. “Should have tried harder, right Dent?”

Dent, sitting right beside Natalie, took a sip of juice and droned, “shut up, Ricky,” 

“Yes, shut up, Ricky,” said Natalie testily, focused on buttering her toast and ignoring Ricky’s leer from across the table. The  café  was quickly filling with loud, obnoxious Muggle tourists from all over the world which annoyed her already. She did not need Ricky adding to the maelstrom. The clothing they wore was enough. 

Ricky looked put out but his eyes soon landed on a pretty blonde who was walking towards the  café  and his fork paused halfway to his mouth. Caddy followed his gaze and nearly choked on his juice. The Pottingers immediately started snickering, scraping their plates clean.

“Wow. . . that’s the most beautiful woman in the world,” breathed Caddy, awestruck as the two watched the girl approach.

“I’ve got dibs,” said Ricky, “look at the ass on her, huh?”

“She’s walking  _ towards _ us, you idiot,” Dent shook his head.

“I can tell. Ricky Webster can always tell. Blimey, she’s almost as fit as you, Malfoy.”

“Shut up,” repeated Natalie with palpable irritation. She started eating faster, knowing she’d lose her appetite if Ricky and Caddy started getting into what they liked the most about this random blonde Muggle.

“Stop eating so fast, Malfoy,” Dent, ever obsessed with her well-being, growled from beside her. “You’ll choke. Or give yourself indigestion at practice later.”

“Whatever,” Natalie grunted, mouth full of eggs.

She could feel him glaring at her. “Malfoy-”

“She’s coming here!” exclaimed Caddy, dropping his glass on the table with a loud clang that attracted the attention of several nearby Muggles.

“Caddy,” Dent hissed a warning.

“Bloody hell, she is coming here,” interrupted Ricky. He sat bolt upright and started running a hand through his hair. “I assume I look fabulous as always?”

“Yes,” said all three Pottingers at once — and this did not assure Ricky in the slightest. 

“Look, look!” gasped Caddy as the blonde Muggle stepped onto the  café  property, smiled at the waiting host, who led her to a table inside, partially out of sight from the team. They could see just her profile from where they sat.

“Aw,” Caddy looked dejected at this turn of events. 

Ricky, however, was still preening. “Right, we’ve got a bit of time before practice — I’m gonna run on in and see what she’s up to.”

Natalie, who had just taken a sip of juice, found herself spewing it all over the table, choking and coughing in astonishment because of who was now approaching the  café . She’d recognize him anywhere.

“I told you, you’d choke!” snapped Dent and he started looking around to see if he could surreptitiously pull out his wand to clear her throat.

Natalie waved him off, ignoring Ricky’s complaints of disgust, eyes glued to the tall, handsome figure who walked up to the  café  and was also led inside by the host. She watched him swirl through the tables and take the seat hidden by a large plant at the table of the pretty blonde. The Muggle — who Natalie was beginning to suspect was not a Muggle — smiled and started coyly batting her eyelashes at Tom Riddle.


	11. September 1945: Red Nails and Lace Napkins

Natalie scrambled out of her chair. “I’ve got dibs on that girl!” she announced to the bewilderment of the rest of the English national team.

“Malfoy’s into girls?” Ricky’s jaw hung open. “Is that why you won’t sleep with me?”

“Malfoy — what?” exclaimed Dent; she had nearly knocked him out of his own seat when she jumped up.

Caddy wailing, “does this mean Malfoy will never talk to me?” and the snickering of the Pottingers ringing in her ears, Natalie made her way through the outside tables and stepped into the dim atmosphere of the inside section of the  café . 

Her entrance must have been rampant with energy. Natalie found every single person inside staring at her. The fact they were Muggles made it all the more creepy and unsettling. 

But she ignored them. Eyes roving towards the table where Tom Riddle and the blonde girl sat. His gaze was on her before hers was on him. Their eyes locked across the tables and Muggles, making Natalie freeze as she received the distinct feeling she was not to approach him under any circumstances.

Twitching her eyebrows at him, she flicked her piercing stare over to the blonde. The Muggle — or witch — had briefly glanced over upon her entrance, and quickly returned to ogling Tom Riddle as if Natalie was just another Muggle customer at the  café .

Nausea welled up within Natalie. She began to regret eating those eggs so quickly. A familiar spinning inside her very soul kicked into high speed. The blonde looked like she wanted to eat Tom Riddle instead of the dainty croissant on a porcelain plate before her. A sudden urge to wipe the table with the girl’s hair seized Natalie. It would at least get rid of that stupid, vapid expression on her face. Maybe it would even knock a few of her overly-white teeth out too.

Natalie watched Tom give the blonde a flirtatious smile and reach across the table to pick up the girl’s hand. He kissed the back of her palm — Natalie could see the flawlessly manicured, red-tipped nails even from this distance. The blonde giggled and patted his face with her hand, lightly tapping at his jawline with each of her cherry-red nails. 

Why were her nails so  _ red _ ? The desire to vomit gripped her. They were redder than a Gryffindor’s scarf and looked utterly sinful contrasting against Tom’s pale skin. She wanted to rip each of them off — one by one — drop them into the untouched cappuccino on the table, and then make the blonde drink it. Maybe that would get rid of the equally-red lipstick on the lips she kept biting for no practical reason. 

The blonde finally removed her hand from Tom’s face and dropped it onto the table between them, one of her red-tipped fingers spinning circles around the rim of the cappuccino. Natalie narrowed her eyes as the blonde finally picked up the cappuccino, waggled her eyebrows across the table at Tom, took a sip (unfortunately, her nails were still attached to her fingers), and placed it back on the table, proceeding to lick her lips and giggle.

Natalie’s eyes widened as the blonde’s giggle shot through the inside of the  café  like a curse and clanged within her ears. She winced at the noise as it crashed through her head. She had to reach out and place a hand on a nearby table to steady herself. 

“ _ Excusez-moi _ !” Natalie jumped as a voice loudly snapped nearby. She glanced over at the table she had leaned against and blinked rapidly for a moment. The table was not empty. A young French couple — a very angry young French couple at that — were glaring at her. 

“ _ Le buerre, l’idiot! _ ”

Looking down, she realized when reaching out to steady herself, she had stuck her hand right into a dish of butter on the couple’s table. 

“Oh, sorry,” she muttered in English, retracting her hand from the table and gawking at her butter-covered fingers with the same amount of disgust she felt from looking at the blonde bitch across the  café . 

“Um. . . .” instinctively, she grabbed one of the fancy lace napkins on the table and used it to wipe the butter off her hand before dropping it back onto the table. “Thanks.”

Quickly stepping away from the now furious couple, her gaze snapped back across the  café  to watch Tom lean towards the blonde and conspiratorially mutter something as the incensed French couple began furiously complaining to a member of the waitstaff. 

The blonde batted her eyelashes as she replied to whatever it was Tom had said, wiping invisible crumbs from her cheek with a lace napkin. Natalie stared at the napkin she held. It was just large enough to be twisted around a neck. . . . 

They continued chatting. Their voices too low for Natalie to pick up on — or the howling in her head was drowning out any external noise. 

What the bloody hell was Lord Voldemort doing in Paris? And what the  _ fuck  _ was he doing meeting some blonde, attractive, obviously very spoiled, bitchy, also obviously very wealthy, annoying, slutty girl — who looked like she’d rather drink his face than the poor cappuccino she had started sticking her fingers in just to lick them in front of him — in some Muggle  café  a few blocks from the Eiffel Tower?

Natalie’s eyes shot towards a slim piece of parchment Tom produced. It lay on the table between the two and she paused as a new thought sprung into her mind. 

Was this business for Borgin and Burke’s? But what the hell was her Uncle thinking, sending his handsome young assistant —  _ her boyfriend _ — to  _ Paris _ to conduct some probably worthless business deal with some dumb blonde who didn’t even look like she could hold a wand with her stupidly long, red nails?

“Hello!” Natalie found herself staring at a very excited looking middle-aged Muggle man. Blocking both her path, and her view of Tom Riddle and whoever the blonde was. An English tourist, from his accent and dress.

“Er, hi. . .” she said with suspicion, taking a step backwards. The Muggle had gotten way too close for her liking. She could see her own reflection in his thick glasses and the day old stubble upon his not-yet-wrinkled chin.

The Muggle stepped forward as if pulled towards her. “I couldn’t help but notice your outfit-”

The bloody Muggle football clothes they had to wear. A bubble of panic burst in her. She moved to the side, trying to sidestep the Muggle. “Er. . . uh, yeah. . . okay, uh, excuse me-”

He moved with her, preventing her from slipped past him and raising a hand as though to stop her with a serious question. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know a Theodore Borealis, would you?” the Muggle asked with excitement. “Chap passed a couple years ago but he was a bloody all-star back in my day. Most goals above and below the Thames.”

Natalie nearly tripped as every muscle in her body seized up. Heart squirming beneath her ribs like a worm exposed to sunlight. 

She was in the middle of a Muggle  café  in the middle of Paris, France, with her boyfriend flirting with a stupid blonde for reasons undetermined, the rest of the Quidditch national team outside, probably waiting to hound her, and this bloody Muggle had just stepped in her path to ask her if she knew her own dead Muggle father. What the fuck was she supposed to say? That she’d killed him?

“I, uh, no! Don’t know him — never heard of him — no idea,” she blurted out, trying to edge her way past the Muggle. He kept moving to stand directly in front of her.

“Ah, well, that’s a shame. I swear, might be it’s just the uniform, but you walked in here the same way old Theo Borealis would walk onto the field. Absolutely incredible! Always got the crowd going. I should know, he was one of my favorite players — still have his autograph and everything. I watched every game-”

“Sounds lovely,” she squeaked; her skin starting to crawl with a furious energy in response to the mention of her father. She needed to get out. She needed to get to practice  _ now _ . Before she blew the  café  straight across the city. Tom and that blonde bitch could wait. 

“I really must be going-” she insisted, trying to shrug her way past the Muggle.

“What, so soon?” cried the Muggle, clearly wanting to engage her in further conversation, he mindlessly reached a hand towards her shoulder. 

The instant his hand brushed against the English football shirt, the Muggle collapsed unconscious to the ground as though he had been struck by a strong electrical shock.

Natalie stared at his motionless body in stunned horror before a scream erupted from somewhere nearby. Her head jerked up and she locked eyes once again with Tom Riddle and she knew he had seen the entire interaction. 

Spurred into action, she took off, sprinting out of the  café  and to where the team was still sitting around the table. Ricky Webster was looking very annoyed, the Pottingers were still laughing, and Dent looked exasperated, but she didn’t care.

She barrelled straight towards them as more screams and yelling began erupting from inside the  café .

“We gotta go!” she shouted at them, “we gotta go, now!”

Dent looked stunned as the screaming and shouting carried out towards them. “What the bloody fuck did you do, Malfoy?”

“Doesn’t matter!” she groaned, grabbing Dent by the arm and tugging him to his feet. “We have to get out of here!”

* * *

  
  


The English national team stumbled back into their hotel to find Seymour Mulciber, assistant to the Head of the Department of Magical Sports and Games waiting for them in the hotel lobby. Arms crossed and a frown adorning his face, nobody else was present. The hotel staff had mysteriously disappeared.

“Er, hey, Seymour,” Dent greeted him nervously as the whole team shuffled to a halt. Natalie blanched upon sighting him. She knew this had to do with the Muggle at the  café .

“Hey, Dent,” Mulciber greeted the captain before his voice turned grave. “I need to speak with Malfoy. The rest of you can scram.”

Dent grew annoyed. “It’s my team, I give the orders.”

“Then tell them to scram,” Mulciber said with cool authority and Natalie knew this was a Department — and possibly a whole Ministry — issue.

Reluctantly, Dent turned to the team. “Let’s go.”

“Is Malfoy in trouble?” whispered Cadwallader as the Pottingers vanished and Ricky grudgingly followed.

“Yeah, for not shagging me,” mumbled Ricky before he vanished around the corner. Natalie glared at his back as he disappeared.

“You’ll be in trouble if you don’t get out,” snapped Dent and he and Cadwallader hurried off after the rest of the team.

“Right,” said Mulciber, looking much more relaxed now. He moved to sit on one of the couches that circled the fireplace in the lobby. The fireplace wasn’t lit, but he flicked his wand and it roared to life. 

“Malfoy,” Mulciber turned to look at her before gravely pronouncing, “you’re a murderer.”


	12. September 1945: My Uncle's the Minister of Magic

Natalie found herself staring at Seymour Mulciber in horror. Eyes wide as her breath seemed to stick on the inside of her throat. She was a murderer. . . . Well,  _ she _ knew that. Nobody else should know about how she poisoned her father years ago. Of course, Tom knew — he didn’t count. So who had found out about the parricide she had committed when she was in school? Who had told the Department? Why did they send Mulciber? To arrest her? He seemed pretty relaxed for a homicide situation. Besides, wasn’t her Uncle working on a new set of laws which would technically make her actions legal? Theodore Borealis had, after all, killed Theia Malfoy, her pureblood witch mother.

“But it was only a Muggle so it’s not too much of an issue,” Mulciber continued from where he lounged on the couch and she grew more confused. Why was her father’s murder being brought to light now? It had been years ago. Was it because they were embarking on a chase for the World Cup? And now she was in the spotlight, her face and name and autograph were circulating throughout the entire wizarding world — so any sordid events of her past were being dug up to slander her?

“Um. . . what?” she stood frozen in the middle of the lobby, scared to move a muscle for fear Aurors would burst out of the walls and drag her off to Azkaban and-

Mulciber’s laughter shattered her spiraling thoughts. “Right, so you just killed a Muggle — accidentally or deliberately, that’s what I’m here to find out — Matt and Jack Lament are currently trying to clear it all up. The French Ministry isn’t too happy. Seamus Dawson sent over people from the Department of International Magical Cooperation to help out too. He should be showing up himself, actually.”

Natalie’s jaw dropped as a tsunami of understanding washed over her. The Muggle in the  café — he had  _ died? _ How was that possible? Well. . . she knew  _ how _ it was possible — she had felt rage like a thousand wildfires burning out of control in that  café — but  she didn’t imagine that it could happen like that. Where the Muggle had just. . . dropped to the floor. Dead, just like that. She hadn’t intended to  _ kill  _ him.

“I, uh, I didn’t plan to,” she began in a shaky voice. Not quite sure how she was going to explain this latest disaster.

Mulciber raised a hand to stop her. He stared at the fireplace. Green flames spun around until someone popped out. 

Tiberius Malfoy, the Minister of Magic, brushed soot off his robes and glanced around until he spotted Mulciber on the couch.

“Seamus isn’t here yet, then?” he asked conversationally, sounding remarkably calm for someone whose niece had just accidentally committed a murder. 

“Should be on his way,” Mulciber checked his watch. “With Jack and Matt.”

“Excellent,” said Tiberius and he took a seat on the couch with incredible ease. He then seemed to notice how pale Natalie looked.

“It was just a Muggle,” he assured her, “you’ll only have to explain what happened to myself and Seamus and we’ll handle the French Ministry.”

“Oh,” she said blankly. Now wishing she had never followed Tom Riddle into the  café . It was all that stupid blonde slut’s fault.

“You can sit down,” Mulciber gestured at the couch. 

Taking a minute to register his words, she slowly made her way towards the empty couch and forced herself to sit. Hand flying up to play with the ring around her neck and wondering how she was going to explain this. How did you say that a Muggle had touched your shoulder and dropped dead in an instant without sounding completely mental? Tiberius knew about her energy power, but the others didn’t. Nervous, she tried to catch her Uncle’s eye to hint at that, but he was intent on staring at his pocket watch. Watching the seconds tick by.

The hotel doors opened. All eyes turned towards them. In marched a very irritated Seamus Dawson, robes flicking around him. He was followed closely by Evan Rosier and Zacharias Nott. Natalie’s eyes widened upon seeing her two friends. They looked remarkably pleased to be there, shooting her grins as they walked in.

“Matt and Jack can’t make it,” said Seamus Dawson as he approached the group. “French team started making a fuss. They want England to forfeit the game over this.”

Natalie sucked in a breath, despite the reassuring looks Nott and Rosier gave her. They hadn’t even played their first game for the Cup and they already looked to be out of the running. And it was all her fault. Just because a stupid Muggle had mentioned her father.

“That’s ridiculous,” snorted Tiberius. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this.”

Gazes turned to her. She reddened, dropping her eyes to stare at the fleur-de-lis patterns on the carpet. Nott and Rosier stepped forward and settled on the couch on either side of her. Rosier clapping a supportive hand on her shoulder, though she felt him shudder as a bolt of energy went through him. But he did not die like the Muggle had — so that was good news. . . .

“I, uh,” she stammered before shaking her head. She could at least not embarrass the Malfoy family name. “I didn’t mean to  _ kill  _ him — I hadn’t known he was even dead until Seymour told me just now.”

“What spell did you use?” asked Seamus Dawson from where he stood between her and the Minister, sounding more curious than angry. A wave of gratitude rushed over her. She was related to or friends with essentially the entire British Ministry of Magic. They’d find some way to clear this catastrophe up. After all, her Uncle was the bloody Minister of Magic.

“Er. . . well, I didn’t exactly. . . use a spell. . . .” she latched onto her Uncle’s gaze, hoping he would understand.

To her relief, he gave her a nod and a small smile. Tiberius then cleared his throat and met Seamus’s confused eyes.

“This would be an example — albeit, a rather morbid one — of what I had spoken to you about after my son’s wedding, Seamus,” Tiberius explained in a composed voice and understanding dawned over Seamus Dawson’s face.

“Ah, I see.”

“Er,  _ what _ exactly is this an example of?” asked Mulciber, glancing around. Nott and Rosier shared a small snigger, making Mulciber glare at them.

“Come here,” Natalie ordered, beckoning Mulciber towards her. He was trustworthy, she decided.

Hesitantly, Mulciber rose and closed the distance between them. Standing before her, Nott, and Rosier in bewilderment.

Natalie stretched her hand out towards him, gesturing for him to take it. Mulciber stared for a brief moment before clasping her hand in his.

Instantly, he leapt backwards, shock adorning his face as he gaped at the hand he had just held hers with.

“What the bloody hell-”

Behind her, Rosier whispered to Nott, “should we make him a Knight?”

“Not yet,” Nott muttered while Tiberius explained everything to Mulciber. Natalie gave the boys a pointed look and they sheepishly grinned.

“-going to ask that you keep this quiet, Seymour,” the Minister sounded deadly serious. “But do you understand now?”

“Er, yeah, yes. . . .”

“This doesn’t change the fact that the French Ministry is furious the English national team killed a Muggle and over three dozen more had to be Obliviated,” Seamus Dawson reminded everyone.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Natalie insisted, “it was just that. . . he touched me and I-”

“He what?” demanded Tiberius, leaning forward as harsh lines appeared on his forehead. Everyone else fell silent. 

Natalie hastened to explain, feeling the room turn cold as gazes grew sharp. “Well, he stopped right in front of me and wouldn’t let me walk away — kept asking if I knew some. . . some, er, some Muggle. . . I think um, football player — then, um, when I went to leave. . . he tried to stop me and went to grab me. . . .” she mimicked the motion of reaching out to grab someone’s shoulder before falling back against the two boys beside her. 

Tiberius clapped his hands together and settled back against the couch, looking as though the problem had solved itself. Even Seamus Dawson looked relieved, his shoulders slumping under his Ministry robes. Nott wrapped an arm around her and gave her a grin.

“The French will have a tough time arguing against that,” said Tiberius, “a Muggle laying hands on a witch. She acted in self-defense. The Defensia Supra Omnia bill hasn’t been voted upon yet but this is sure to get it passed in days. The French won’t want to bring this to the courts then.”

“The Muggle was past middle-aged, anyway,” added Nott, “any little spell could have killed him. . . .”

“He could’ve had a heart attack,” Rosier pitched in with a conspiratorial grin.

Seamus shot his assistants a shrewd glance. “Yes, but the French are going to ask if there were witnesses to support her claim. There were only Muggles in that café. And they’ve all been Obliviated.”

“Oh, we have a witness,” Nott piped up. “Two, actually.”

“Who?” asked Tiberius, looking astounded. Natalie sank against Nott in relief. She knew they were going to joke about the “Knights saving the day” for all eternity after this. But she didn’t care. She still had a shot at the World Cup because of it.

“Lor- er, Tom Riddle,” said Rosier with a grin and Natalie snapped her head towards him. She had completely forgotten Tom had been in the  café  too. “And Celeste Buisson.”

Celeste. The name sounded familiar. Natalie frowned. It had to be the dumb blonde who wanted to carve Tom’s eyeballs out and eat them. But. . . Ricky Webster had slept with a Celeste last night. Was it the same girl? She had a sneaking suspicion they were connected. How many Celestes were there? But wouldn’t Ricky have recognized the girl he just shagged? He was stupid, but she doubted Ricky would be  _ that  _ stupid, especially concerning the one thing after Quidditch he proclaimed himself to be an expert in.

“Excellent, you two,” Seamus Dawson praised his assistants. “Bring them in. I’ll insist the French meet us here and we can get this taken care of.”

“On it,” Nott and Rosier jumped up. Natalie managed to meet Rosier’s eyes before they left — and he nodded with a smirk, understanding her request.

“Uh, excuse me,” a voice called from the hallway leading to the upper floors when the doors closed behind Rosier and Nott. There stood Dent clutching a broom and in his Quidditch robes, looking unnerved in the presence of so many important Ministry officials.

“We, er, have practice now,” he said, glancing at Natalie. “And we need our Seeker.”

“You can have her back,” said Tiberius with a chuckle. “Everything’s been sorted out, or it will be very soon.”

“Right, fantastic,” said Dent, “c’mon Malfoy.”

Natalie hesitated. Debating if it was worth it to insist she stay so she could see Tom, see this blonde Celeste character, and see this problem solved. But Dent glared at her reluctance.

“Now, Malfoy.”

“Right,” she squeaked and leapt up. Shooting a nod at Tiberius, Seamus, and Mulciber before darting out after Dent.

* * *

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” Dent demanded from Natalie once the team had flooed to the Quidditch pitch they were allowed to use to practice for the upcoming game. It was on the rural outskirts of Paris, and was cloaked in an abundance of Muggle-repelling charms. They sat in the visiting locker room, pulling on equipment over their robes.

“Uh,” Natalie hesitated, staring down at the strap of her arm guard, not sure if the situation was supposed to be kept quiet or not. 

Dent paused in securing his Keeper’s shoulder pads. “Malfoy. . . .”

Natalie sighed, flicking her gaze up to meet his quietly panicked eyes before dropping her gaze. “Okay, well, you know how we had to leave the  café ?”

“You mean how you bloody freaked and came out screaming that we leave?”

“Yeah, that,” she grunted in irritation, pulling the strap tighter than normal. Then having to readjust it back to usual with another sigh. “Well, when I was inside, some Muggle came up to me and started talking to me and all — I tried to leave but he grabbed me and. . . he fell.”

Dent rose to his feet, equipment all ready, and picked up his broom, giving her a sharp look. “Why do I have the feeling he didn’t just  _ fall _ ?”

“Because he’s dead,” she snapped, jumping up and grabbing her broom. “And Jack and Matt and my Uncle and Seamus Dawson and the French Ministry-”

“Malfoy,” Dent stepped forward and snatched her broom. She kept her grip on it, and so he dragged her towards him until she could see the anger raging in his pale eyes. When he spoke, his voice rumbled with danger. “Is this going to get us kicked out of the Cup run?”

“No,” she growled, trying to tug her broom from his grasp but he tightened his hold on it and held her in place. “It’s not. My Uncle’s dealing with it. There’s witnesses to what happened. It’ll be fine.”

He released her broom so suddenly she nearly fell, his blue eyes burning. “You had best hope it’ll be fine.” Dent gave her one last look before surveying the rest of his team. 

“Let’s go.” He moved towards the locker room door, Natalie glaring at his back. 

“Someone’s in trouble,” sang out Ricky Webster as he pranced after Dent. “Wouldn’t have happened if you’d joined me last night.”

Natalie turned her glare on him, lips curling into a sneer at the aggravating Beater before her eyes widened as a thought struck her.

“Wait, Ricky!” she called, hurrying after him and nearly knocking Leonard Cadwallader to the floor. 

Ricky swivelled to face her, astonishment written on his face. “What’s this? Come to beg forgiveness for having missed your shot to shag me?”

“No,” she brushed aside his bawdiness. “What was the name of that girl you slept with last night?”

“Celeste,” he said with a smirk. “Why? Still into girls? Seems we have similar taste, then.”

“No,” she hissed at the thought of being similar to Ricky in any manner. The Beater just smirked as they followed a fuming Dent onto the field. “What was her last name?”

“Oh. Dunno. Usually don’t ask that. Kills the mood, you see.”

“Do you remember anything else about her?” Natalie immediately realized this was the wrong question to ask.

Ricky’s smirk widened. “You mean, besides how enormous her-”

“No, no, no,” she hastily said, unwilling to hear a full description of Celeste’s physical anatomy. “Nevermind.”

“They did seem to get bigger as the night went on, that was a first-”

Groaning, Natalie pushed past him, preferring Dent’s anger to Ricky’s lewd commentary.

“Sure hope this isn’t our last practice as a team,” Dent remarked with extreme hostility as she hustled towards him and away from Ricky.

“Oh, shut up,” she groaned, beginning to wish she had insisted on staying to see Tom and Celeste come in.

  
  


* * *

  
  


To Natalie’s disappointment, the team didn’t return to the hotel until later that evening. Dent decided “team nap” wasn’t going to happen despite Caddy almost passing out in the middle of what turned into an hours-long practice (Natalie suspected Dent actually was terrified it would be their last practice, and so he did not want to end it). He finally called it quits as the sun started sinking in the horizon. Several French house-elves then served them dinner in their locker room in silence because they were all too exhausted to speak.

Once the elves started acting concerned around Natalie, she insisted they head back to the hotel.

When they arrived, nobody was there with news of how the situation had progressed. But nobody was there to tell them to pack up and go home because they had been forced to forfeit — so she took it as a good sign, despite Dent’s grumbled comments about it.

“Right to bed,” ordered Dent as the seven trudged to their rooms. “Not as early tomorrow morning but the match is the day after, so this is an important night’s sleep tonight.”

“Anyone wanna join me for an important night sleep?” asked Ricky with a pointed look at Natalie.

“I’m sure Celeste would like to join you,” she said distractedly, wondering who she ought to owl to find out if the situation was cleared up.

Before Ricky could snap a retort, the door to his own room opened and there stood a strawberry-blonde witch in deep burgundy robes with a coy smile on her face.

“Someone say my name?” she giggled in a slight French accent but paled upon realizing the entire Quidditch team stood staring at her.

“Oh,” she shuffled a bit, “hello.”

“I assume you’re Celeste,” said Dent with barely disguised annoyance.

“The one and only,” crooned Ricky, darting towards the witch, picking up her hand and laying a dramatic kiss on it. 

But Celeste was too busy studying the rest of the Quidditch team. Her smoky green eyes darted between the Pottingers (who, one by one, were slipping down the hall to their own rooms), passed right over Caddy, and landed on Natalie. Dent, as if he saw a threat in her gaze, stepped in front of Natalie and cleared his throat.

“I like your hair,” Celeste told Natalie before Dent could say anything. “Very blonde. . . .” and her hair changed from strawberry blonde to platinum blonde, identical to Natalie’s, before their very eyes. 

Natalie sucked in an astonished breath. She found her gaze drawn to the girl’s hands. Her fingertips were manicured a brilliant scarlet. The same nails she had seen stroking Tom Riddle’s face in the café. 

“Woah,” exclaimed Ricky, twirling Celeste’s hair around his finger. “Do it again.”

Celeste giggled and began flashing her hair different colors — brunette, black, ginger, blonde — and Ricky began rating each of them.

“Excuse me,” Natalie interrupted, stepping around Dent and staring directly at Celeste. “Didn’t you stand witness for an incident today?”

Celeste turned to look at her and Natalie was hit with a barrage of the metamorphmagus’s memories and thoughts. She blinked, trying to control her Legilimency; though she did eagerly observe the memories and thoughts that contained a certain handsome dark-eyed wizard until shutting out the onslaught, nauseated by the witch’s mind.

“Oh, yes,” said Celeste in a bored voice. “You’re the Seeker? It was for you, I think. . . and an old Muggle or something. Yes, the English Minister cleared most of it up with our Minister.” She paused and then turned dramatic. “Yes. . . I barely did any talking. It was all the English Minister. . . and someone I thought was in love with me.”

Ricky gasped, “me? I’m in love with you!”

“You can’t be, darling,” sighed Celeste, her accent thickening with emotion as she patted Ricky’s arm. “I am mad at you.”

“What? Why?” exclaimed Ricky and Natalie glanced around to spy Caddy watching the interaction between Celeste and Ricky with fascination and Dent looking ready to throw Celeste out of the hotel.

“You did not tell me your teammates were so  _ handsome _ ,” she purred, running a hand over Ricky’s chest and then looking directly at Dent, completely ignoring Caddy.

“Oh,” Ricky shot a look at Dent as if telling him to scram. Dent, however, looked horrified at this turn of events.

“He and Malfoy are shagging,” Ricky hastily said and Natalie made a choking noise.

“Seriously?” Shaking her head, she took a leaf out of the Pottingers book and continued walking down the hall towards her own room. Leaving Celeste’s flirtatious purring and Dent’s furious scolding behind her.

“Stupid Paris,” Natalie muttered under her breath as she opened the door to her room. “City of Love more like City of — oh, bloody hell. . . .” slipping into her room, she realized it was crammed full of people. She hurriedly clicked the door shut behind her and gawked around. 

Seymour Mulciber sat in the desk chair, enchanted so it spun in slow circles as he read through a stack of parchment. Evan Rosier and Zacharias Nott had conjured chairs for themselves and had a game of Wizards’ Chess floating between them (Nott was obviously winning). Eric Dawson and Adolphus Lestrange were sprawled out on the floor at the foot of the bed, in the middle of a game of Exploding Snap, though it seemed very likely they were occasionally shooting a spell at Mulciber’s chair to make it spin faster. And on her bed, lounged Tom Riddle, book in hand.

“What the hell are you all doing here?” she finally asked.

“Well, I’m the only one who is actually supposed to be here,” Mulciber jumped in before Lestrange could make a joke. 

Rosier stopped glaring at the chessboard to pipe up, “hey, we were told to come too.”

“No, you  _ asked _ if you could report what  _ I  _ was told to report — and Seamus just let you come because he lets you two do whatever you want,” Mulciber looked annoyed about this. 

“We are also very much supposed to be here,” remarked Lestrange, wanting in on the action. 

Dawson smirked, “yeah, Mrs. Malfoy wanted us to tell you to stop killing Muggles while you’re on the national team — no matter how much they deserve it.”

“Merlin, it was an accident!” she groaned, striding across the room and throwing herself onto the bed. She looked directly at Tom Riddle until he laid his book aside and stared her down.

“I was here first,” he droned, amusement playing upon his smirk. 

“I know,” she hissed, noting the brief surprise that flicked through his eyes at her tone. “I told Evan to bring you here.”

“Had a bloody hard time getting that Celeste witch away from him,” Rosier had overheard their conversation and Natalie snapped her head towards him.

“Is that the slutty metamorphmagus?” asked Lestrange. He and Dawson climbed up from the floor to sit on the foot of the bed. “She tried to flirt with me. I told her to flirt with Eric, then she started wailing about how men always broke her heart. Bloody awful, if you ask me.”

“Yes, the slutty metamorphmagus,” Natalie said testily, glaring at Tom as she recalled the way Celeste had looked at him in the café. 

She watched realization flash through his eyes. He smirked. “Jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she spat, “she’s already shagged one of my teammates and is trying to shag another.”

“That’s an accomplishment,” snorted Lestrange. “Sleeping with the whole national team. Imagine having that to brag about?”

“Sounds disgusting,” drawled Mulciber and the older wizard stood to command everyone’s attention. “Well, I’m here to inform you that the whole situation with the Muggle has been resolved. Tiberius took care of it. Riddle here helped charm up the French, too,” he sent a nod at Tom Riddle and continued. “You lot are all set to play the French — though I doubt they’re going to be very happy, so keep your wits about you.”

“French team is bloody awful this year,” Nott reported with relish. “It’ll be an easy first round win.”

“Good,” grunted Natalie and she nodded at Mulciber. “You should probably tell Dent before he has another tantrum.”

“On it,” Mulciber chuckled and moved towards the door.

“That slutty metamorphmagus might be in his bed, though, so be careful,” she warned him.

“Yeah, or she’ll be in your bed next,” joked Dawson and Lestrange hooted with laughter.

“No,” Natalie scolded the duo as she settled back to lean against the headboard of the bed, deliberately keeping a space between her and Tom and pointedly ignoring him. She could feel his annoyance at this. “We don’t like the slutty metamorphmagus.”

“Yeah, we don’t like the slutty metamorphmagus,” Dawson corrected himself, though Natalie caught Rosier rolling his eyes and shot him a glare. He sent her a smirk as Mulciber walked out, muttering something about “children”.

“So, why are you lot here?” she demanded of the others. 

“Well, we already explained that,” teased Lestrange. He and Dawson stood and shot looks over at Nott and Rosier. They rose and vanished their chessboard and chairs.

Nott cleared his throat and nodded at Dawson. “Your father is expecting us back, to make sure she knows it’s all cleared up.”

“Ask him if he can get us tickets for the game,” said Dawson with a grin.

“No!” Natalie said in a loud voice. The thought of having her old teammates watching her play for the national team was unnerving. Dent and Ricky and Caddy and the Pottingers existed outside the door to the hotel room. Tom and the Knights existed within it. As it should be. She didn’t want the two worlds colliding. That felt wrong. 

“We want to see you play!” whined Lestrange, sounding very much like a petulant child.

“It’s just the first round,” she snapped, “and you heard Zack, the French team is bloody awful. It’ll be a boring game anyway. Besides, don’t you all have jobs to do?”

“If you mean helping the French Ministry Obliviate a bunch of Muggles, then yes,” said Rosier with a snort. “At least that was fun.”

“Glad to be of service,” she hissed, “now get out.”

“Are you lot flooing?” she heard Dawson ask.

“We apparated,” replied Nott. “This is usually a Muggle hotel.”

“Yeah, there’s barely any fireplaces,” said Rosier. “Makes no sense.”

Natalie grabbed a pillow and flung it at them. “Just disapparate!”

They laughed as the pillow missed all of them. 

“Thank Merlin she’s not a Chaser,” remarked Lestrange before one by one they turned and vanished with small pops.

Once they had gone, she glanced at Tom out of the corner of her eyes. He was still glaring at her.

“So. . . why are you in Paris?” she finally asked, voice steely as she studied the painting of the Eiffel Tower across the room.

“Business,” he replied coldly.

“Business,” she mocked, turning to face him fully. “What does your ‘business’ have to do with meeting some slutty metamorphmagus at a café near the Eiffel Tower? And why didn’t you tell me you were coming to Paris?”

He stared at her, dark eyes flashing. “You’re overreacting.”

“I’m  _ overreacting _ ? What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re overreacting,” he sounded impatient now, turning so he too faced her. They both sat cross-legged on top of the bed, leaning forward and glaring at the other, an arm’s length of space between them. “I’m only here on business your Uncle asked me to conduct.”

Natalie instinctively bared her teeth as an image of the blonde-haired, red-nailed Celeste flashed through her mind. “What could Burke’s business have to do with that-”

“Joan of Arc’s goblin-wrought armor from the 1400s,” he snapped. “You know the Buisson family is one of the oldest pureblood families in France. Celeste Buisson is the spoiled, bratty only-child of the line that have both forgotten what such a heritage means and are in possession of the armor. Burke wants it. I took the way most likely to get it.”

Natalie scowled at him, hands clutching at the bed sheet between them as her muscles grew taut from anger. “Well, did it work? Hope it didn’t require too much. . .  _ effort _ . . . on your end. She seemed intent on. . .  _ eating  _ you in that café.”

“And you seemed intent on  _ murder  _ in that café.”

“That was an accident! He was in my way and spoke about things which he shouldn’t have!”

Tom let out a soft but chilling laugh that reminded Natalie of his other name. “I wasn’t referring to the Muggle.”

“Oh,” she blinked, momentarily thrown off guard before she sneered, “well — did you get the armor? Did your flirty charming work on her?”

He rolled his eyes. “Unlike on you.”

“That’s because I know it’s fake,” she growled.

“I used what I could to get what I needed,” his voice was terse. It did nothing but infuriate her further.

“And did it work?” she seethed, “did she give you Joan of Arc’s precious armor? Or did you have to-”

“Yes, it worked,” he interrupted with a hiss. “She signed the rights to the armor to Burke and I’m taking it back with me to London by the end of the week. Although your little stunt with that Muggle almost ruined it. The scene was crawling with French Ministry officials just seconds later. Buisson wasn’t too pleased about being asked to bear witness to the deadly actions of an English national team Seeker who  _ can’t control her temper. _ ”

He dragged out the last few words and they ushered in a raging silence between them. Natalie glared at him. He glared right back. There was a wand length of space between them by now. Natalie realized that in their arguing, they had inched forward ever so slightly towards the other until she could see the coals burning within his eyes, whipped up into a frenzy. She briefly wondered how much of the gale fanning the flames was from her before he reached forward and snatched hold of her chin with a hand.

Tilting her head towards him, his eyes snapped between either of hers. A tingling in her head signaled the familiar feeling of his Legilimency magic as a shudder ran up his arm.

“Why did you kill him?” he asked, voice low and demanding.

She blinked, “didn’t you stand witness?” 

“Yes. All I testified was that he laid a hand on you. Which was wrong in itself. But that’s not why you killed him, is it.”

“No,” she growled, images flashing through her mind — and she knew he had already seen the truth. “He mentioned. . . my father,” she spat the last two words out, feeling contaminated by speaking them aloud.

Tom’s eyes narrowed. They were now sitting so close she was nearly in his lap. His hand remained on her chin, the other coming to rest on her hip as if to hold her in place before him. Then she realized how much she was shaking. 

Natalie felt the need to joke about the amount of energy that trembled within her. “You should probably be dead. . . .”

“I can’t die,” there was no humor in his voice, his face remained grave.

Natalie stared into his eyes, watching the fires burn before shoving his hand from her face and launching herself forward to attach her lips to his. 


	13. September 1945: France vs England

The day after the next, the day of the England versus France match, Natalie was once again awoken by a pounding on her door. 

“Stupid Dent,” she groaned and went to roll out of the bed only to find herself pulled back by a painful tugging on her head. “Ow!”

She glanced over to find Tom Riddle staring at her in annoyance, his fingers threaded through her hair, half a blonde braid forming. “I was busy.”

“Stop playing with my hair. It’s game day and the captain of the national team is gonna break the door down in two seconds.”

Rolling his eyes, he released her hair from his grip and gestured her towards the door with a dismissive wave. She shot him a glare but bounded up from the bed, swinging her bathrobe over herself before darting towards the door.

She opened it a crack and peered out. There stood a very agitated Dent, already dressed in his Quidditch robes. 

He took in her tousled hair, bare legs, and bathrobe embroidered with Snitches. Biting his lip and closing his eyes as though trying to control himself. Then he took a deep breath, snapped his eyes open and glared at her. 

“Get up and get ready to go. It’s game day.”

“That’s my line,” she retorted.

“What?”

“It’s game day. That’s my line.”

He gave her an exasperated look. “I don’t need your shit today, Malfoy. Get ready to catch the goddamn Snitch.”

“I am ready,” she sneered and heard Tom laugh from within the room. Instinctively, she started to close the door to prevent Dent from hearing anything.

But his eyes narrowed and he grew suspicious, wedging a foot in the door so she couldn’t shut it all the way.

“Got someone in there with you, Malfoy?”

“I, uh, no,” she argued, her cheeks and neck growing warm. She did  _ not _ want Lord Voldemort and Eugene Dent meeting. Just the thought of them being in the same room sounded awful. “No one’s here. I’m all alone.”

His facial expression made it obvious he did not believe her. “Are you taking after Ricky?”

“Uh, no, what?”

“Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“Er, yeah, so what?”

“So you  _ are  _ taking after Ricky.”

“No, I’m not!” she shrieked and kicked his foot away. “Gotta go get ready!” she slammed the door shut and turned to find Tom sitting up in bed, an enormous smirk upon his face.

Natalie groaned, “shut up!”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Hey, beautiful,” Ricky Webster called across the locker room as the team readied for the game. “A little birdy told me you weren’t sleeping alone last night.”

Natalie ignored him, staring down at the custom dragon-hide gloves in her hands. Tugging them on and adjusting them until they molded to her skin. Abraxas had bought them for her the instant he found out she would be playing for the National team. They were red, to match their uniforms, and had their surname embroidered in black across the back of the palms. She adored them. 

“Wait, what?” gasped Leonard Cadwallader, “what do you mean, she wasn’t sleeping alone?”

“Well, you see, Caddy, she was  _ shagging _ someone,” explained Ricky in a slow voice.

Natalie could hear the Pottingers begin snickering from across the locker room and cursed that Dent was meeting with the officials and the French captain before the game, and so she was left with these buffoons. Dent might be obsessed with her but he was the sanest of them all.

“Shagging?” Caddy sounded shocked, “who? You?”

“No!” Natalie couldn’t restrain herself from looking up and snapping this. The thought of shagging “Pretty Ricky” was sickening. Though she bit her tongue in annoyance when Ricky looked delighted to have finally gained her attention.

“Sadly it was not me, Caddy,” crooned Ricky, running a hand through his blond curls and sending Natalie an obvious wink. “I don’t think it was her boyfriend either — what do you say he’s always doing? Traveling?”

Natalie scowled. “Don’t you have a girlfriend, Webster?”

“Yeah. A bloody knockout she is too. Veela. Hair whiter than yours. Much fitter than you too, sorry not sorry-”

“Alright!” the door slammed open and Dent burst back in, looking irritated. Natalie sank back against the wall of her stall in relief.

“Caddy, Ricky, shut up,” snapped Dent, “Malfoy, stop looking so happy, we haven’t won yet. Ted, Tucker, Tommy — stop laughing, this is serious.”

“Doesn’t the French team bloody blow?” asked one of the Pottingers, nobody was sure which.

“Well, thanks to our Seeker here, the French team isn’t too pleased to be playing us,” said Dent, shooting a look at Natalie. She avoided his gaze, picking up her broom and brushing off some imaginary dust.

“They’re out for blood,” Dent continued, glaring around at his team. “So unless you lot have anything relevant to say, shut the bloody hell up. Everyone play your game, keep your heads up — Ricky, Caddy, I don’t care how mad Malfoy is at you lot, keep those bloody Bludgers away from her. Pottingers — score. Malfoy, catch the bloody Snitch as soon as possible so we can go home. Sound good?”

There was silence around the room as they all stared at their captain. Evidently, he was satisfied with this. Nodding, he stepped forward to grab his broom. Natalie leaned over to toss it to him and he snatched it out of the air with a swift flourish.

“Don’t screw this up,” he whispered to her, a note of pleading in his voice. Natalie met his pale eyes and nodded, feeling remarkably calm now.

“Don’t plan on it,” she grinned and Dent sucked in a deep breath, glancing around at them all.

“This is only the first round. . . it’s a long way to go between now and the Cup. . . .”

Leonard Cadwallader raised a hand, confusion written across his pimply face. “So then. . . what’re we waiting for?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Someone’s gonna bloody die!” Natalie screamed at Dent as she streaked past the Keeper’s hoops on the English side. The game had been brutal since the balls had been released and got dirtier by the second. The French were really  _ not _ happy.

“Make bloody sure it’s not you!” Dent yelled back as she passed him.

Natalie grunted, flinging her blonde braid out of her face and squinting around the field as she rose back up into the air. She always liked having a bird’s eye view. So long as she wasn’t  _ too  _ far.

The Pottingers had notched seventy points for England and they were only ten minutes in — the rumors were true, the French team was bloody awful. Natalie wondered how they had even made it into the first round. Bribery was not out of the question, especially with how the referee was calling the match. So far, France had received three penalty shots. One because Caddy had aimed a Bludger a little too well, and given a French Chaser a bloody nose. Another because Ricky had apparently made a remark to the one female French Chaser. Natalie hadn’t heard what the remark was, and did not wish to know either. The third penalty shot was because Natalie had swooped down into the match and frightened the French Chasers so bad, they had dropped the Quaffle. Dent had stopped all their penalty shots, save one. It had been their only goal thus far.

“Nice shot,” muttered Natalie under her breath as she watched Ricky knock the Quaffle directly out of the arms of the female French Chaser he had made a comment to. The scarlet ball dropped in the air, and was swiftly scooped up by a Pottinger. Tucker, maybe. He darted down the field and took a direct hit from a Bludger sent sailing by the French Beaters. The Quaffle slipped from his grasp as he appeared to nurse a hand for a moment. Another Pottinger — maybe Tommy — retrieved the Quaffle, only for a French Chaser to fly right into him in mid-air. 

“Wow,” Natalie hummed, astonished neither of the players had fallen off their brooms from the collision. “That had to hurt — bloody hell, go. . . Ted?” She watched as the third Pottinger scooped up the Quaffle and bolted down the pitch, two enemy Chasers in fast pursuit. 

“Cmon, cmon, cmon!” She urged whichever Pottinger it was on from her vantage point in the air, peeking at the French Seeker out of the corner of her eye. 

“Bloody brilliant!” Natalie whistled as Caddy sent a Bludger careening towards the pursuing French Chasers, knocking one off course. He spun directly into his teammate and Ted had free rein to take a shot. 

She clapped as the Quaffle sailed through the French hoop and they notched another ten points. Eighty-ten after fifteen minutes. Now — to catch the Snitch. 

Tilting her broom upward, she hovered high above the pitch, scanning the field. The French Chasers had recovered the Quaffle, dodging and slamming their way past the Pottingers. Caddy and a French Beater seemed to be playing hot potato with a Bludger. Sharp movement below her drew her eye. Looking down, the French Seeker, a twenty-something year old wizard with a bushy handlebar mustache, streaked upward — directly at her. 

The Snitch. It had to be close. Why else would the bloke look ready to murder her? Well, besides that she had caused a complete scandal a few days ago. Frantically glancing around, a glint of gold flickered in the air just to her right. A flash of wings and she flung her broom in that direction, French Seeker hot on her tail. 

The Snitch dropped. Natalie swore, diving downward after it. It was never easy. She could hear the French Seeker muttering under his breath, cursing her, cursing the Snitch, cursing Quidditch, cursing God, cursing the Germans. She would have laughed had she not been tunneling in on the tiny golden ball. 

Once she caught it they could go home. And she could redesign another wing of her father’s old house. No, actually, maybe she’d go down to the basement for the first time in years and get rid of what was left down there. She been too afraid to touch it. But now she felt it had to be done. 

The Snitch was right in front of her. Brilliant gold against the green of the pitch below — or the brown of the pitch below, that was getting bigger and bigger as she flew down, hurtling up towards her like an incoming comet, spinning and shrieking. . . Wait a second-

Natalie swerved as the incoming Bludger whistled past her, it grazed against her left shoulder and spun past. She heard the French Seeker yelp as it hit him directly — just as she wrapped her hand around the golden Snitch.


	14. October 1945: Bloody Russia

Eugene Dent surveyed his troops in the English national team locker room. They had just beaten France in the opening round of the 1946 Cup run a week ago and now it was the first of October and they were about to take the field for practice.

But today he stood in the center of the room and they hung onto his every word because he was about to announce who they would be playing at the end of the month.

“Finland beat Australia. China beat Brazil. The United States beat Norway. Russia beat Argentina. Portugal beat Egypt. Mongolia beat Canada. Mexico beat Chile. England beat France-”

“No shit,” muttered Ricky Webster from his locker room stall. “I was there.”

“We were all there, moron,” snapped Natalie Malfoy from across the room. “You almost killed me, remember?”

“That was an accident,” he pouted and gave her puppy-dog eyes which would have worked on any witch who wasn’t Natalie Malfoy. Dent wasn’t sure why Ricky was still trying to get her to sleep with him.

“Ricky, shut up,” droned Dent without losing a beat. “And you did almost kill her. If that Bludger went any further right it would have knocked her out of the air and we would have lost.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” muttered one of the Pottinger triplets who immediately fell silent when Dent glared at him. He thought it might be Ted. Or Tommy.

“I’m sorry, beautiful,” crooned Ricky, flicking a curl of blond hair and sending a seductive smile across the room at Natalie. “I was aiming for the ugly French bloke. Didn’t want him ruining your moment.”

“Webster,” growled Dent, trying to prevent Natalie from exploding. He didn’t want things getting violent right before a team practice. It would ruin the team dynamic and be a complete waste of energy. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

Webster’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah, and?”

“Who are we playing?” asked Leonard Cadwallader as if he hadn’t paid attention to anything that had happened in the past few minutes. Which he probably hadn’t. 

Glad to return to the topic, Dent grinned, looking around at them all before declaring, “Russia.” 

“Russia?” exclaimed Natalie and Dent warily glanced at her. “Russia!?”

“Yeah,” he said, not sure why it bothered her so much.

She didn’t say anything; instead an infuriated expression crossed her face and she seemed to be glaring at something he couldn’t see.

Dent stared at her, an awkward tension had bloomed within the room. Even Ricky fell silent. Caddy gaped at Natalie with his mouth hanging wide open. 

After a minute of her glaring at thin air, Dent shrugged and cleared his throat, regaining their attention. “Everyone get ready to practice,” he ordered and walked over to his own stall next to Natalie’s. 

Three sides of the locker room had three sets of stalls — one wall for the Beaters, one for the Chasers, and one for the Keeper and Seeker. The fourth wall had the doors to the tunnel out to the pitch and the showers, and the board that Dent used to maniacally draw on before every game. The setup delighted him. What delighted him even more was he got the feeling that Natalie would prefer to sit next to him over the rest of the team. He couldn’t blame her. 

“What’s the deal with Russia?” he muttered as he began strapping on his Keeper equipment. They were the only two who came dressed in their Quidditch robes, unlike Ricky, who preferred to make a big scene of changing while flexing his muscles.

“My family company is just in a huge fight with them right now,” she explained, plucking a bent twig from the tail of her broomstick. “Russia is all I hear about.”

“Your family’s in a fight with an entire country?” he asked in astonishment.

She gave him a look. “Why’s that so surprising? We’re the English national team. We represent an entire country.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said but then grinned at her, a gleam coming into his eye. “But doesn’t that make you want to beat them?”

She returned his grin. “Obviously.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Domitia Malfoy dropped the parchment onto the desk in the study of the Malfoy Manor, leaned back in the custom leather armchair, and sighed. Pursing her lips and running her fingers together as she stared blankly across the room at the flickering fireplace.

Her grandson, sitting in a chair to her right, gave her a grim smile. 

“Well. . . at least the pressure is off us. . . somewhat,” Abraxas weakly tried to see the bright side of what the parchment contained.

Domitia scoffed. “Yes, the Russians insist Gringotts will be granting their loan any day now. The only reason we’re still bothering with this deal is because cutting off an entire country would cast a bad light on the company — and the Ministry, with your father as Minister. But the Russians begging us to wait just a bit longer — as if we don’t know they are never getting that loan.”

“It’s still a possibility,” said Abraxas, “we don’t know exactly what they’re discussing with Gringotts. . . or if they bring anything new to the table.”

“Adolphus and Eric reported they wanted fifty million. That was nearly a month ago. I sincerely doubt anything has changed — what did you say they were offering as collateral?”

“Some sort of Muggle explosive,” chuckled Abraxas, “though apparently they don’t even have it.”

“Muggle explosives,” Domitia let out a real laugh at this. “What is the world coming to?”

Abraxas, knowing it was a rhetorical question, elected to change the topic. “At least the contract with Natalie became much more lucrative than we expected.”

At the mention of her granddaughter, Domitia morphed from frustration to delight. “Yes, yes, though who knew the English national team was going to require so many Pepper-Up Potions. . . .”

“I’ve heard the captain is a bit. . . hard-lined. . . .”

“More so than our own?”

“Yes — as a matter of fact — she should be arriving any moment. I’ve told Adolphus and Eric to let us know-”

At that moment, the door to the study flew open and in burst a gaggle of young people.

“Sorry!” exclaimed Adolphus Lestrange, in the middle of putting Natalie Malfoy in a headlock. Eric Dawson beside him, trying very hard not to laugh. Winky Crockett was behind them all, looking disgruntled at the mischievous actions of the others. “Forgot to tell you she was here-”

“Let go of me!” shrieked Natalie, half-heartedly struggling against Lestrange’s grip.

“Sorry,” repeated Lestrange, not sounding sorry at all, and he released her. She stumbled, nearly falling to the floor before catching herself. She straightened up and glared at Lestrange, who gave her a smirk in return.

“Grandmother,” Abraxas made his voice loud and taunting, “the children are here.”

“Yes, thank you, dear, I’ve noticed,” Domitia smiled as the “children” all turned red and shuffled about. “Hello, Winky.”

Winky Crockett looked decidedly uncomfortable at having been directly addressed by Domitia Malfoy. “Er, hello, Mrs. Malfoy. . . .”

“I see you’ve gotten stuck with babysitting the princess,” observed Abraxas and he grinned at his cousin. Natalie scowled, flounced over to the nearest couch, and threw herself onto it. Lestrange and Dawson were quick to join her, with a lot of jostled elbows, weak punches, and annoyed shoves between the three of them. 

“It’s not entirely awful,” replied Crockett, though his eyes grew scathing as they landed upon Lestrange and Dawson. “Though when we’re being attacked it can get a bit ridiculous.”

“We haven’t seen her in  _ weeks _ !” Lestrange complained with a flourish of his arm that nearly hit Natalie in the nose. “You get to see her all the time!”

“Not that often,” snorted Crockett, “Eugene Dent doesn’t let her off the field.”

“Huh,” Lestrange leaned conspiratorially towards Natalie. “Want us to rough Dent up a bit? Think he’ll still give us an autograph if we do though?”

Natalie whacked him across the shoulder. “Will you stop being stupid! I came here for a real reason.”

“Oh, not just to say hello?” teased Abraxas. “Your own family!”

She shot him a look. “No. . . I wanted to tell everyone that we’re gonna be playing-”

“Malfoy,” Crockett interrupted with a sharp gaze. “The schedule of the next round hasn’t been released yet. You can’t go around telling everyone who the team is playing. Regardless of whether or not they’re family and friends.”

“They can know!” she looked flustered and aggravated. “Anyway — we’re playing Russia.”

Reactions varied. Lestrange and Dawson collapsed across Natalie’s lap and into each other’s arms. Abraxas sat bolt upright in his seat. Domitia merely smiled.

Natalie, underneath the two wizards, stared at her grandmother, unnerved by the look in her eyes.

“What is it?” she demanded as Lestrange groaned his grievances to an equally distraught Dawson.

Domitia flashed a look at her granddaughter, completely ignoring the childish actions of her two employees. “Given our. . . history with Russia. . . fate would only have it work out that you would.”

Clearly annoyed at this fatalistic viewpoint from her grandmother, and ignoring Crockett’s glare, Natalie scowled and declared, “well, anyway, we’re going to beat them. We’re going to kick the bloody shit out of them.”

Abraxas cleared his throat with a snigger. “I’d have thought it would be us against Russia in the Cup final.”

Natalie made a disgusted sound, making Lestrange and Dawson mimic her as they straightened up to sit appropriately for the first time. 

“Shut up,” she muttered.

“Shut up,” they mocked her. 

“Malfoy, you have practice,” Crockett reminded her with visible impatience. 

Natalie squeezed herself away from Lestrange and Dawson and jumped to her feet. “Right!”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Natalie scowled at the wooden door. She’d redesigned the door, just like she had redesigned the whole mansion. The door was dark oak now. With a silver handle and the Malfoy family crest carved into it. Except she’d never opened it. She hadn’t touched, hadn’t thought of what was beyond it. Sure, it was still her father’s Irish mansion. But now it looked nothing like what it had. Felt nothing like it had. 

“Fuck it,” she muttered to herself. Steeling herself on the thoughts she had in the last Quidditch game, she reached forward and pulled on the handle. 

It didn’t budge.

“Oh, bloody hell!” she grunted, tugging her wand from her robes and flicking it. The door blasted into itself, cracking into a hundred pieces and falling down the stairs in front of her. After a moment, she followed it.

The stairs did not creak under her weight. Perhaps because she tip-toed, as if expecting the ghost of her dead father to jump out at her. But that was ridiculous, of course. . . .

When she reached the bottom, she glanced around. The basement seemed to glow with a dull gray light. 

“Lumos,” she hummed the spell and flicked her wand again. The ball of light rose towards the ceiling, sending sharp white beams throughout the basement. 

She looked around again, unable to remember when she had shoved everything down in the basement. Last June, perhaps. It was surprisingly empty. A few boxes here and there, piles of Muggle clothing, old furniture, that old refrigerator-thingy Theo Borealis had bought before he died. Those black and white balls were nearly everywhere, dotting the scene like freckles — ugly ones. It smelled musty and nostalgic. She wanted to vomit. 

Tucking her wand away, Natalie took a step forward, picking her way over the splinters of the door and wondering where to begin, how to begin, if she really wanted to begin — or even what her plan was. She didn’t have one. She just knew she had to do something. 

She stepped towards an old wooden wardrobe. A thin coat of silver dust covered it. She poked the rusted handle with a finger and grimaced. It felt slimy and fragile — ready to collapse if she inspected it further. With a shrug, she tugged on the door. It creaked open and the whole wardrobe shuddered under her touch. With a cracking noise, the door fell out of her hand and crashed to the floor. She just managed to jump out of the way to avoid crushing her feet. 

“Bloody hell,” she grumbled, kicking the broken door away and peering into the wardrobe. Her vision instantly turned red as she laid eyes upon her father’s old football jerseys when he played for the English national team.

She lunged forward to grab the jerseys — and found herself blown backwards with a flash of light as something seemed to rush out of her. Natalie landed on the opposite side of the basement, sprawled out on the cold floor on top of the splinters of what used to be the basement door, having narrowly missed whacking her head against the stairs. Gasping for breath and now in complete darkness, something warm and wet ran down her hands, soaking into her robes. 

“Bloody hell,” she exclaimed again as the scent of blood hit her nostrils and a wave of stinging pain broke over her hands and wrists. Thinking of what Dent would say if he was here, she cursed herself for having destroyed the door — only to land on top of the sharp remains. Lifting her head, she squinted towards where she had just been. The wardrobe had vanished. A thin spiral of smoke twirled up towards the ceiling. With it, she assumed, went the Muggle football jerseys. 

A creak on the stairs made her freeze. Ignoring the blood, she scrambled to find her wand. She glanced up, wide-eyed, as her gaze landed upon a tall figure standing on the stairs above her. For an awful moment, she believed it was her father.

“What are you doing on the floor?” the voice made her breathe a sigh of relief, she lowered her wand. An urge to laugh overtook her and she giggled. 

Tom Riddle continued leisurely stepping down the stairs until he stood immediately above her. She could feel his burning gaze. 

“Get up,” he said with a snort. “You look ridiculous.”

“You look ridiculous,” she instinctively mocked him. 

“I’m not the one dramatically lying all about the floor like I’ve just been in a duel.”

“I just was,” she said, rolling onto her knees before leaping to her feet. She glanced up at him, surveying his appearance. He was dressed in all black, dapper and suave as always. His face remained in shadow, as the basement was still dark, though she could tell where his eyes were from the perpetual gleam within them. 

A swishing sound and his wand was lit. Natalie blinked from the sudden light, raising her hand to cover her eyes and remembering her hands were bleeding.

“What do you mean, you just were?” his voice turned into a hiss, sounding gravelly and snappish. “With whom? Why are you bleeding?”

“Um, a wardrobe,” she said, dropping her hands and now able to observe the planes and angles of his face. They were intent and striking as usual, with the familiar hunger that seemed to outline them. She stared, awestruck for a moment.

“A — what?” he sounded baffled. It made her laugh. She burst into giggles for the second time. It annoyed him. She could tell. She could always tell. 

“A wardrobe,” she repeated, glancing down at her hands and thinking of how she could stop the bleeding — but then his wand flashed in front of her eyes and she watched the cuts close, the splinters of wood fall away, and the blood vanish.

“Yeah,” she repeated, “a wardrobe.” And she dashed across the basement. He followed, keeping his wand lit. 

“There,” she pointed at what was now a small pile of ashes. 

“A wardrobe,” he said it as though it was a heinous enemy. “Was there a boggart in it?”

“Not exactly,” she admitted. 

“Not exactly,” a sliver of sarcasm in his voice as he mocked her this time.

Humming to herself and now much more confident with him there, she pounced forward, kicking the ashes everywhere. She watched them scatter before aiming a kick at one of the black and white balls. It flew across the basement, hitting the heavy metal appliance with a loud bang.

“What are you doing?” demanded Tom, he stayed on her heels as she started tearing through the basement. 

“Cleaning,” she grunted, flicking her wand and vanishing a pile of old clothes she spotted more football jerseys in. Batting a rickety old chair out of her way, she pushed a table away and it crumbled under her touch. Joining the wardrobe in ashes on the floor. She stepped over it and towards the huge metal appliance that was once used to keep food cold when her Muggle father lived there. She stared at it, ignoring Tom’s comments. Then reached forward, tugging on the door. It creaked open, allowing her to glance into its dark insides. 

“What is that?” asked Lord Voldemort.

“Some bloody Muggle appliance,” she remarked, overwhelmed with a memory of how excited her father had been when it was dropped off at the front door by a starstruck delivery man. Her father had given him an autographed black and white ball and the man had bowed.

“To do what?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she growled as a wave of rage shook through her.

“Natalie-” the use of her name broke through her mind. She looked back at Tom. He was staring at her with wild eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you. Cleaning.”

“This isn’t cleaning-”

“Yeah,” she turned back to the metal appliance and placed a hand on it, now with an idea. She glanced at him again, a vicious smile on her face as she felt her chest, her shoulders, her arms, her hand, her fingers tingle with a warmth that flowed down from her and into the cold metal appliance. “And?” 

Except he wasn’t looking at her. He stared at the Muggle refrigerator, charcoal eyes blazing. She kept her eyes on him, and watched a flash of light spiderweb its way through his eyes as her whole body shivered. 

And then his eyes were on her and she felt him grip her shoulder and she was flung back into him and they toppled over as light seemed to streak all above them. Natalie threw her arms over her head, muscles tensed as everything seemed to spin around her. She stayed frozen, eyes squeezed shut, clutching her head and curled into a ball until she felt herself hauled up to her feet.

Tom stood before her, peeling her arms away from her face in a hasty manner.

“What?” she asked, opening her eyes and glancing around. “Oh. . . .”

“Yes,” he said, as they watched the metal appliance melt before them, white flames whipped up into a frenzied tornado. “Oh.”

He dragged her back from the inferno as she stared at it in fascination. 

“Oops,” she muttered with a snort. 

“Oops,” he repeated, “put it out.”

“Why’s it fire-”

“Are you trying to burn the entire house down?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, then-”

“Wait, you’re right, let’s go,” she decided, grabbing him this time and dragging him after her as she bolted towards the stairs, leaving the fire raging.

“What-”

“I wanna burn the entire basement down!” she exclaimed as she tugged him up the stairs behind her.

“Are you idiotic, it’ll burn the whole house-”

She paused halfway up the stairs, grabbing the front of his robes and bringing his face close to hers. She had to lean down to look into his eyes. Bringing her mouth close to his, she whispered one word. 

“Magic.”


	15. October 1945: Russia vs England

Eugene Dent paused and took a deep breath before entering the British team locker room. He had just exited the customary captains-referee meeting before their match against Russia. 

The Russian captain terrified him. He’d heard things about Vladimir Solokov but nothing had prepared him for how frightening the Russian Seeker and captain was in real life. 

He shook his head to get rid of the image of the sharp-eyed, hulking Russian Seeker. His own Seeker would look miniature beside Solokov and Dent sincerely hoped it would not come to a jousting match for the Snitch. To make things worse, they had to come to northern Russia to play the bloody match. They’d been in the country for two weeks now. He was sick of it. They all were. And it was goddamn  _ cold. _

But he had a plan. He’d spent days devising it and ensuring it would work. Hell, he even had a Plan B. An actual Plan B. It wasn’t everyday you  _ actually  _ had a Plan B. 

Everything had to work out  _ just _ right.

Dent banged open the team room door and glared around. Everything looked to be in order. He could go ahead with Plan A.

“Malfoy!” he barked at the blonde witch, “stop fidgeting and save your energy for the game!”

Natalie froze before continuing to fidget and squirm. Dent shot a look at Ricky Webster, who winked.

“She needs a good shag,” remarked Webster with a supercilious smirk. “That always calms me down the night before a game.”

“Ricky,” warned Dent and Leonard Cadwallader leaned over in fascination.

“A good shag, you say?” asked Caddy. “Does it actually calm you down?”

“Every time,” bragged Ricky and he looked over at Natalie. “You should’ve come to my room last night, beautiful. You wouldn’t be so bloody nervous today.”

“I have a boyfriend, idiot, how many times do I have to remind you?” she ground her teeth and glared at him. “And you have a girlfriend!”

“A boyfriend who we’ve never seen?” taunted Ricky. “What is he doing this time — still traveling? You can stop lying, beautiful. We all know traveling is code for he broke up with you.”

Natalie leapt to her feet and made to charge across the room at Ricky and that was when Dent stepped in. He hastily wrapped his arms around her and pulled her away from a smug Ricky Webster.

“Let — me — kill — him!” she grunted as he struggled to drag her out. 

“You can’t, it’s game time, we gotta beat Russia,” he panted, already sweating from the effort required to wrangle her after him. It felt like he was wrestling a tornado but he managed to get her out onto the field, the rest of the team following at a safe distance.

She stopped trying to murder Ricky when one of the Pottingers shoved her broom into her hands and the match began. The referee blasted his whistle, the teams hopped into the air, and the balls were released. Dent guarded his goalposts with care, studying the arena around them.

It was a closed match, which meant limited tickets had been sold. It was still early in the Cup run and the general public usually did not care about the opening rounds — unless their team won. Tickets that were sold were customarily bought by the other teams to watch their possible competition. Dent thought this was all the better — there would be less distractions from an unruly audience. 

His eyes found themselves glued to his Seeker. As he watched her rise through the air, gaining that bird’s eye view she was so fond of, he could feel her burgeoning energy. All the way from his goalposts. He shivered, but a grin slipped onto his face. So far Plan A was on track. . . .

* * *

  
  


Natalie was going to kill Ricky Webster. Stupid Ricky Webster. Always boasting about his “veela girlfriend” who, if she was actually real, had been cheated on hundreds of times by Team Slut, Ricky Webster. 

And you know what? While she was at it, she’d kill Leonard Cadwallader. The bloke was a complete idiot. Like an  _ actual  _ idiot. Stupid, boring “Caddy” as Dent liked to call him-

But speaking of Dent, she’d kill him too. Stupid Dent and his stupid obsession with her and she  _ knew _ that he knew Ricky infuriated her and yet he hadn’t done  _ anything  _ about it-

“Shit,” she muttered, blinking for a moment as she realized she was hundreds of feet in the air, in the middle of a Quidditch match. An important Quidditch match. A Quidditch match, which, if they lost, they were out of the running for the ultimate prize. A Quidditch match against Russia.

Stupid Russia.

She shook her head and looked around the arena. The Pottinger triplets were dominating at the moment, with Ricky and Caddy doing a fair job at antagonizing the Russian Beaters. Studying the game play, she frowned. She couldn’t seem to find the Russian Seeker.

A feeling behind her darkened her senses and she turned her broom around. The seventh Russian player cruised directly towards her. She stared at the Russian Seeker. He was huge, bulky, and muscled, with dark hair and dark eyes that seemed to bore into her soul.

She blinked, momentarily intrigued, and attempted a Legilimency prod into his mind only to break eye contact immediately. All he was doing was imagining her with her robes off.

Natalie sneered as he flew by — a little too slow for it being the middle of a Quidditch match.

He just raised an eyebrow and said in a thick Russian accent, “you vill lose.”

The statement had her seeing red as she trembled on her broom, her blonde braid started crackling and her skin tingled like a thousand candles were being held to it.

“No, we bloody won’t!” she screamed after him, leaning forward on her broom and shooting around the entire stadium for a quick lap. 

Her muscles were alternating between trembling and taut. Her entire being was spinning. First they were playing Russia. And then Ricky had pissed her off. And then Dent hadn’t done anything about it. And then the Russian Seeker had eye-fucked her — and then proceeded to say that they would  _ lose _ .

And yeah, maybe Ricky was right and if she had a good shag last night she wouldn’t be on the verge of what felt like imminent explosion.

But she hadn’t even seen her bloody boyfriend since she set fire to the basement of her Irish mansion. That had been October first. It was now October thirty-first. Thirty days ago, exactly. It wasn’t  _ that _ long. . . .

And no, they hadn’t “broken up” or anything. They were busy adults with busy lives.

She was playing for the British national team and had been in cold-as-fuck Russia for the past two weeks. When they weren’t scampering around the globe in pursuit of that ticket to the Cup final, Dent was practicing them from dawn till dusk on the field, off the field, on the field, off the field. Sometimes they all passed out in the locker room together, just to wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

And her uncle, Caractacus Burke, had obviously discovered that he had the most charming wizard to ever walk the earth working for him. Occasionally, he wrote her to gloat about the newest item her boyfriend had managed to wheedle out of a hard-nosed customer for some ridiculously low price, only for Burke to resell it at three times that. He would then proceed to wish her luck on the national team and ask when she would be dropping by the shop for a visit.

It wasn’t like they were normal, average, ordinary young adults with normal, average, ordinary jobs and normal, average, ordinary ambitions who could go home at the end of each normal, average, ordinary day and have a normal, average, ordinary dinner and share the normal, average, ordinary events of the day.

That sounded bloody awful anyway.

“The game, the game,” she whispered to herself as she flew another lap. Her mind howling to itself, her broom felt slippery beneath her, like it wanted to buck her off. She shivered, not just from the cold Russian air. 

“Focus,” she hissed — they had to win. If they lost, they were done. If they lost, there would be no shot at winning the Quidditch World Cup. If she blew it all for the team, for the entire country, just because Ricky Webster had pissed her off, she would never forgive herself. All of Britain would never forgive her. And then Ricky Webster would really be dead.

Her face felt wet. She raised a hand to find tears freezing on her cheeks in the frigid wind. Seriously? She was gonna bloody cry over this? Unbelievable.

She squinted as everything seemed to swirl around her. She had to find the Russian Seeker. So long as he hadn’t caught the Snitch, it was still anyone’s game.

He was barrelling towards her again. What the hell? Why was he always coming directly at her? If he was going to undress her with his eyes again, she might hex him. She always kept her wand on her arm during games. It would come in handy one of these days. Maybe that day was today.

Natalie hastily wiped the remaining tears from her eyes. She didn’t want the stupid Russian Seeker to see her crying. He’d probably laugh and say something like “see? Made you cry” in his absurd accent. And then she’d  _ have _ to hex him. Or maybe punch him. He looked like he deserved a good whack in the face. Her boyfriend would definitely agree with her. . . . 

Unnerved by the Russian Seeker’s rapid approach, she pulled her broom up and away from him.

But he followed.

This was the dodgiest Quidditch game she’d ever played. He continued to follow her up into the air, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, looking directly at her. She didn’t know what his strategy was. Sometimes Seekers would tail the other Seeker during a game, but this was bloody mental. He was glaring directly at her as if she was the Snitch-

The Snitch.

_ The Snitch. _

He wasn’t flying towards her. He was flying towards the Snitch. Which had to be right near her-

A flash of gold out of the corner of her eye just as her senses prickled. She lunged for the tiny gold ball, feeling the fluttering of its translucent wings on her fingertips — only to be knocked aside by the heftiness of the Russian Seeker. 

She yelped — and he pushed her out of the way as if she weighed nothing, nearly knocking her down to the pitch. She managed to recover her balance on her broom just as the Russian Seeker wrapped his fist around the golden Snitch.


	16. October - November 1945: Plan B

Seymour Mulciber stepped into the office of the Head of the Department of Magical Sports and Games and uttered a curse upon seeing the ridiculous pile of documents his boss, Matt Lament, had left for him. The Quidditch World Cup was fun and all, but the paperwork was a bloody bitch. 

With a groan, Seymour flicked the door shut behind him, fluttering the poster of the National team pasted onto it. Natalie Malfoy seemed to smirk at him. He glared at it. 

“Hope you caught the bloody Snitch,” he grunted, glancing at the clock above Matt’s heaping desk. The hands of the clocks were charmed to have Ricky Webster’s and Leonard Cadwallader’s faces on them (Mulciber had a suspicion they had bothered Malfoy or one of the Pottingers to cast the charm, since neither of them were very magically skilled beyond hitting Bludgers). Ricky winked from the minute hand. The Russian match should have just ended. Mulciber wondered when they would learn the outcome. 

Approaching the desk, Mulciber glanced over one of the stacks of documents. The top was a bill from the Russian hotel where the national team had stayed the past two weeks. Picking it up, he skimmed it over and frowned. There was no way the team ate _ that _ much food. It was twice as much as what they’d spent in France. 

With a sigh, he pulled his wand out and flicked it. An ink pot and quill appeared on the desk, and Mulciber sat down. Pushing parchment away to clear a spot so he could begin the dull work of approving expenses, scheduling travel arrangements, organizing logistics, sending whatever he didn’t want to deal with to the Minister’s office, and sending whatever he  _ really  _ didn’t want to deal with to the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

He glanced over the bill from Russia again. There had to be a mistake. How could the team have blown two thousand Galleons on Pepper-Up Potions when he knew for a fact that Triple I supplied the entire team’s potions needs per the contract with Natalie. That had been a literal goldmine for the Malfoy family company. Particularly once other teams started contracting with Triple I as well. 

Maybe he’d send the suspicious bill to Antonin Dolohov in the Minister’s office. No, that wouldn’t do. Someone might call it a conflict of interest if the bill was refuted with Tiberius Malfoy’s signature. He’d send it to Evan Rosier or Zack Nott in Seamus Dawson’s office. They’d piss and moan about it but do bloody good work. And then he wouldn’t have to deal with it. Perfect.

Mulciber folded the bill up and put it aside to send off later. Glancing down at the next one, he grinned. It was a memo from the latest meeting between the Quidditch World Cup Committee over where to host the final match, given the precariousness of the post-war Muggle world. He eagerly devoured the words, almost completely oblivious when the office door burst open. 

“Oi, Seymour, got a letter here addressed to the Department of Magical Sports and Games, and it looks bloody important.” Antonin Dolohov practically pounced into the office, waving about a scarlet letter that was starting to smoke around the edges. A delighted smirk on his sharp face. Behind him were Evan Rosier, Zack Nott, and Lloyd Avery. All with excited grins.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Mulciber as Dolohov dropped the letter on top of one of the piles on the desk. Mulciber hastily snatched it up before it could send the whole desk up in flames. Hissing as the hot letter singed his fingers. 

“Who sent a bloody howler? The owls are supposed to sort through and not deliver them to us ever since that bloke McGaskey sent a howler over how he thought a witch shouldn’t be playing on the national team.”

“Look at the name,” said Dolohov and he raised a dark eyebrow. “Pretty important name.”

Mulciber glanced down at the howler, sighing upon reading the name of the national team captain, before yelping in pain. He tossed the howler into the air just as it exploded into flames. 

“WE WON!” bellowed the voice of Eugene Dent. “WE BLOODY BEAT RUSSIA! MALFOY DIDN'T CATCH THE SNITCH BUT IT DIDN'T MATTER! POTTINGERS BLEW THEM UP WITH GOALS! WE WON — what? What do you mean? Bloody fuck get out of my way-” and the howler burst into flames. A miniature fireball accompanied by soot and ashes rained down on the heaping desk. 

Mulciber leapt to his feet, frantically shouting spells to avoid a disaster as Dolohov, Rosier, Nott, and even Avery exploded into laughter. 

“Not funny!” he yelled as he held up his wand, levitating all the parchment and documents and brushing off the remaining soot and ashes from the desk.

“It was funny,” sniggered Rosier and Mulciber shot him a look. Nott and Rosier high-fived each other. 

“Hey, they won,”’ Nott spread his arms and raised his eyebrows. “Can’t complain about that.”

“Oh, he’ll find a way to,” Dolohov smirked and retrieved his own wand. With a flick, all the hovering paperwork crashed back onto the desk, in complete disarray.

Mulciber sighed, watching the little progress he had made get buried. “Seriously, Antonin? Don’t you have some new intern to bully or some witch to flirt with?”

“Why did you think I came here?” Dolohov grinned, but then blinked and corrected himself. “To bully, not flirt, so we’re clear. I didn’t come to flirt with Matt Lament’s bitch.”

“Rough day?” asked Nott as Mulciber scoffed at Dolohov’s comment.

“Yes, actually, and I’ve only just begun,” snapped Mulciber. “But while you two are here,” he turned to Rosier and Nott, “I’ve got work for you.”

“You’re not our boss,” sniffed Rosier.

“Shut up.” Mulciber shuffled through the piles of parchment, completely out of order from Dolohov’s hijacking of his hover charm, until he found the suspicious bill. 

“Here,” he handed it over to Nott. “Bring that up with Seamus. Those prices look a little high.”

Dolohov snatched it from Nott’s hand and perused it. “Hm, Dent trying to poison the entire team with Pepper-Up Potions?”

“They just won, moron,” Rosier grabbed the parchment away from the Minister’s assistant and looked it over himself.

“Don’t you have actual work to be doing, Antonin?” Mulciber looked at Dolohov.

“I am working,” said Dolohov coolly. “I do whatever the Minister needs me to do. The Minister wanted me to deliver you that howler-”

“No, he didn’t,” interrupted Rosier, “Antonin saw it arrive and took it from the owl.”

“Shut up, Evan,” Dolohov continued without missing a beat, “and now I have to go inform the Minister that the national team has won their second round game, against the country everyone seems to hate at the moment.”

“Not to interrupt,” Avery coughed from near the door. “But did anyone think the end of that howler was a bit. . . dodgy?”

“Yeah,” Rosier nodded, a concerned expression coming over his face. “Sounded like Dent was bloody scared.”

Mulciber raised an eyebrow. “They just won, why would he be scared-”

“Wait,” Nott shared a look with Rosier. “He said Malfoy didn’t catch the Snitch.”

“They still won,” Mulciber reminded them.

Rosier reached into his pocket for something Mulciber couldn’t see and just smiled grimly over at Nott.

* * *

  
  


“What the fuck do you mean — we won-” yelled Dent as he sprinted off the field after being informed his Seeker fled the field immediately after Vladimir Solokov caught the Snitch. 

“She looked pretty upset!” the referee managed to call after him as he sprinted towards their locker room, wondering what the hell had happened. They had just won! They’d defeated Russia! Didn’t she know that?

“MALFOY!” shouted Dent as he scrambled through the iron-clad tunnel and burst into their locker room. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face. They were moving onto the next round. Sure, Plan A had failed — very drastically, you could say — but he had gotten to enact Plan B. Plan B had saved everything. Thank Merlin he had actually concocted a Plan B. 

He found his Seeker huddled on the floor in front of her stall, hiding her face behind her still-gloved hands with her robes spread all around her. He hurried over to her immediately, almost tripping over his own Quidditch robes in his haste.

She flinched as he approached and he slowed down, feeling buffeted by some unfelt wind. 

“I’m sorry, Dent,” her voice cracked, face still hidden behind her hands. “I couldn’t catch it. I wasn’t focused-”

He understood now. She thought Solokov catching the Snitch meant they had lost. “WE WON!” he bellowed and she froze.

Peeking out over her hands, she stared up at him. “What?”

“We won,” he repeated and reached down to pull her up. Before he even brushed her robes, he found himself lying flat on the floor, a pulsing headache as a dreadful, horrible, awful feeling engulfed him. 

Sure, they had just won and were advancing — but everything was terrible and the world was a frightening place and he just wanted to go  _ home _ but he wasn’t sure  _ what  _ home was because it felt more like a  _ who. _

“Sorry,” she repeated from somewhere above him. It stunned him more than whatever had made him fall to the floor.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, slowly sitting up and staring at her. She was still crouched on the floor in front of the stall. 

“We won?” she weakly asked, gray eyes illuminated from the redness around them.

“Yeah,” he explained in a slow voice, “the Pottingers drove the score up so high it didn’t matter that Russia caught the Snitch. We won by ten points — which is still winning. That was Plan B.”

“Ten points,” she repeated, looking dazed. “Plan B?”

“Well, yeah,” said Dent, rubbing his forehead and scooting slightly away from her. He still felt dreadful. “Plan B was drive the score up in case Plan A didn’t work.”

“Plan A?”

“Er, Plan A didn’t work, obviously, since you didn’t catch the Snitch.”

Natalie stared at him and Dent watched her gray eyes visibly darken. “What?”

He found himself moving farther away as something started buzzing in the back of his mind. He had a sudden, violent urge to jump up and sprint away. “Er, well, you know how you play better when you’re mad-”

“You didn’t,” she whispered, voice low and angry as a new strain of terror gripped Dent. There was something swelling in her eyes now and he could  _ feel _ it in his bones-

“You planned that,” she wheezed, rising to her feet with a whirl of her robes. She stood above him now, glaring down at him. Dent wasn’t sure if he was insanely attracted to her or insanely afraid of her at that moment. “You  _ told _ Ricky to piss me off? What the fuck, Dent? Do you know how dangerous that was?”

Dent pulled himself off the floor, eyes locked on hers. Her words were odd — the hair on the back of his neck stood up and he shivered. “Well, er — oh. . . .” Dent froze and gawked at her. He expected to be yelled at, screamed at, cursed at. But Malfoy now had tears running down her face. And for some reason, it was a bigger punch in the gut than if she had swung a fist. 

A raw feeling exploded through him, starting in the pit of his stomach and rippling through his entire body.  _ Guilt _ . He identified it immediately because he hated the feeling. And he found himself cursing his own actions. He knew trying to whip her up into a fury was playing with fire — and they had almost been burned off the map of countries left in the run for the Cup.

“I’m leaving this bloody country,” she muttered, wiping at her face and pushing past him. “See you at practice,  _ captain. _ ”

* * *

  
  


Lord Voldemort apparated onto the grounds of the magically modified mansion tucked away in the Irish countryside after receiving word from Evan Rosier. Upon arrival, he immediately knew something was afoot. And it wasn’t just the fact that the grounds looked like a tornado had bowled through. The grounds felt like a tornado was still there.

He stared up at the front entryway. The stairs had been restored once Natalie realized that  _ not  _ having stairs from the entrance gates to the front of the house looked ridiculous. But he wasn’t surprised that the stairs were now absolutely destroyed. Pulverized to such small pieces they looked more like a trail of sand trekking up to the front doors.

He  _ was  _ surprised that the imposing Ionic columns had massive chunks taken out of them, and the doors had been blown off their hinges. He spotted the doors halfway across the sometimes well-manicured, sometimes well-annihilated front lawn of the mansion. They were sticking up out of one of the rows of hedges that had been stripped of all their leaves and now looked more like skeletal trees. 

Rosier hadn’t been too specific on what had occurred; Lord Voldemort hazarded a guess that Britain was no longer in the run for the Cup. But he told himself to be prepared for anything.

Trekking his way up the grounds to the front entryway of the house was a nightmare. Once he was there, he took a minute to inspect the destroyed Ionic columns. Then he pulled out his wand and repaired them with a wave of it.

The columns were her favorite part of the mansion. She’d hate it if she knew they had been damaged. If she already knew he would just lie and say she hadn’t ruined them in her emotional turmoil. She wouldn’t believe him, of course, but then she’d be annoyed about something other than the columns.

He stepped over the rubble strewn along the doorway and peered into the darkness of the mansion. 

The whole point of the house her Muggle father had once owned was to be a base of operations but also a sort of go-to, contained space she could destroy whenever in a mood. At first, he hadn’t understood why she wanted to use the old Muggle house, especially with so many memories attached to it — no matter how different it now looked. Until he had been there when she burned the basement to ashes. And then he understood.

The house was silent as he entered, as if it was holding its breath, waiting for the storm to pass. The entrance hall glittered with shards of glass, chunks of marble, and splinters of wood. The sweeping staircase leading to the upper floors was no longer a staircase but a ruin of polished oak. What was once the curling bannister was now a collection of sharpened spikes impaling the air above them.

A loud crack and a trembling house-elf appeared in front of him. It clutched some article of clothing proclaiming support for the English national team.

The elf stared at him with glassy blue eyes and blinked rapidly for a moment. It looked to be in extreme pain, along with being terribly confused, like its life had been turned as upside down as the house.

“Where is she?” he demanded and the elf shivered.

“Mistress has freed-”

“HIRAM!” shrieked a voice from somewhere inside the house. “GET OUT!”

The elf squeaked in fear but looked relieved. It disappeared with another crack.

Tom continued through the house, hurrying along now. Stepping over marble, glass, wood, and things he couldn’t even identify until he came to the back hall of the mansion. The door leading out to the woods behind the estate had also been blown off its hinges, and the walls looked ready to cave in from pressure, with deep cracks running up the alabaster.

But a figure was strewn about on the floor, still dressed in red national team Quidditch robes, loose blonde hair encircling her head, and murderous looking eyes with tear tracks etching their way down her face.

She took a bite out of a licorice wand and stared up at him from the floor. “I freed him because he wouldn’t stop fucking screaming.”

“Sounds logical,” he said and stepped over a chunk of the wall to settle on the floor beside her. He snatched the licorice wand from her hand and flung it out the open doors behind her.

“I was eating that.”

“What happened this time?”

“We won but we lost.”

Tom narrowed his eyes and pulled her into his lap. Shivering as a shock of her energy bolted through him. His mind went fuzzy for a moment before the chaos grew focused. And he understood why the house looked the way it did. 

“Try again, making sense this time.”

She scowled up at him but settled herself against his chest and sighed. “I didn’t catch the Snitch. But we still won. But I didn’t catch the Snitch. And stupid Dent planned it to deliberately piss me off but all it did was ensure I didn’t catch the Snitch-”

“So he was meddling with something he shouldn’t have been meddling with.”

“Um. . . yeah, yeah that’s exactly what happened.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Well — no. Disappointed, maybe. Not surprised. The idiot will do anything to make sure we win.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

She froze, staring up at him for several long minutes before closing her eyes and growing limp in his embrace. “Yes.”

* * *

  
  


Eugene Dent dreaded practice the morning after the Russian game. Sure, they’d won and would be moving on. Russia wasn’t too happy about that. 

But he fully expected someone to be dead when he entered the locker room at six in the morning and glanced around. 

His jaw dropped. Apparently Natalie Malfoy had just cracked some amusing joke that had Ricky Webster and Leonard Cadwallader on the floor, tears streaming from their eyes. Even the Pottingers were snickering to themselves. Though that wasn’t at all surprising — the Pottingers were always snickering about something.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded, stepping into the room and commanding their attention.

“Beautiful here was just proving my theory correct,” said Ricky with a smirk. “Notice how calm she is?”

“Wish I could try it,” said Caddy wistfully.

“Yeah, no one ever gives Caddy any attention because they’re too busy getting over how stupid Ricky looks,” cracked Natalie.

Ricky preened, thinking it was a compliment before sitting bolt upright and sputtering, “hey!”

“That’s enough,” barked Dent, glaring around at them all. This was not the atmosphere he expected, but it was an atmosphere he could handle. Thank Merlin. “Get on the field you lot. We got the next game in a few weeks.”

There was some grumbling but they picked up their brooms and marched out of the door. Dent brought up the rear, pulling Natalie aside to talk before they went out to the field.

“Hey, uh, Malfoy, er-”

“Save it, Dent,” she said with a grin. And he was relieved. She was not mad at him. He hated when she was mad at him. “All’s fair in Quidditch. But next time you try to piss me off, just let me know, okay? Because I’ll help you out in doing so.”

He stared at her in astonishment. “Er, alright. Good to know.”

“Hey, beautiful!” called Ricky as they stepped onto the field. The crisp autumn wind was blowing his blond curls all about and he knew it. “You know you’re still always welcome at my place, right?”

Natalie rolled her eyes and glanced at Dent. “Is this one of your plans?”

“No,” he said, “Ricky’s just like that.”

“Of course,” she snorted and then glared over at Ricky, who started hovering on his broom and flexing his muscles under his Quidditch robes. “Don’t you have a girlfriend, Webster?”

Ricky looked miffed. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Did she dump you?” asked Caddy with fascination. “I’ve never dated a Veela.”

“You’ve never dated  _ anyone _ , Caddy,” sighed Dent, sharing a look with Natalie. Sure she was bloody mental, but it wasn’t the same kind of mental as the rest of the team.

“She didn’t  _ dump _ me,” sneered Ricky and he ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t get  _ dumped _ .”

“So she’s single then?” continued Caddy, excitement coming over his pimply face. “Think she’d find me handsome?”

“She didn’t dump me!” yelled Ricky, jumping off from his broom. “I said I don’t get dumped!”

“Alright!” shouted Dent, attempting to assert control over the situation. He ignored the sniggering of the Pottinger triplets in the air above them and outright laughter of Natalie beside him. “Enough! We’re never going to win the bloody Cup if you lot find something stupid to argue about every five minutes!”

“Make Caddy understand that Ricky Webster does NOT get dumped,” insisted Ricky, flinging a finger in Leonard’s direction and stamping his foot like a five year old. Caddy just looked bewildered at what was going on.

Natalie had to clutch at Dent’s robes to prevent her from falling to the ground in her laughter. “Oh, I’m  _ so  _ happy I’m not the captain of these morons.”

“Ricky, stop acting like a child,” snapped Dent, feeling much more energetic and focused with Natalie holding onto his robes, even if she was laughing. “Caddy, get on your broom. Tommy, Tucker, Ted, stop laughing-”

“I’m not laughing,” said one of them. Dent thought it might be Tucker.

“Tucker is laughing,” said another and Dent changed his mind. 

“Malfoy gets to laugh but not us?” said the third.

“Stop laughing, Malfoy, you’re making me look like an idiot,” muttered Dent to the blonde witch beside him.

She let go of his robes and straightened up. Letting out one last snort before saluting him. “Aye, aye, captain.”

“Anyway,” Dent cleared his throat and glared around at the team. One by one, they all fell silent. “That Russian game was too bloody close. From here on out, we aren’t taking things lightly anymore.”

“We were taking things lightly?” muttered Ricky Webster, sounding flabbergasted. 

“Shut up, Ricky,” Dent said immediately. “Do you want to win the Quidditch World Cup?”

“Well, uh, yeah, duh-”

“THEN BLOODY ACT LIKE IT!”

Ricky flinched, a brief look of astonishment coming over his face, but he remained silent. 

“Malfoy, wipe that bloody smirk off your face or we’re staying here overnight,” snapped Dent. 

Natalie dropped her face but glanced over at him. “You were gonna make us stay overnight anyway.”

“Yeah, I fucking was.”

Everyone was silent, staring at a now incensed Eugene Dent.

After he got his fill of glaring around at them as if trying to infect them with his own mania, he barked, “well, what’re you lot doing? Get in the goddamn air!”


	17. November 1945: Mexico City and New Uniforms

“Does anyone speak Spanish? Anyone?” Eugene Dent demanded from his team as they settled into seats around a large table at a wizarding restaurant in Mexico City. The English team would be playing the Mexican team the following morning. And this was the fanciest restaurant in the city. Jack Lament said they were allowed to treat themselves, a reward for having defeated the Russian team and moved onto the third round.

“No, but one time I met this Spanish witch with the biggest-”

“No, Ricky!” hissed Natalie, stomping on his foot under the table. She sat between Dent and one of the Pottingers (Ted, she thought). The Pottingers freaked her out so she had moved her seat as close to Dent as possible without being on top of him. Dent wasn’t going to complain about it.

“I speak Spanish,” said another of the Pottingers (possibly Tommy).

“Well, doesn’t that mean you all speak Spanish?” asked Dent with immense irritation. The waiters were standing about expectantly, waiting for the team to begin ordering. 

“No,” replied the third Pottinger. 

Both Dent and Natalie stared at the Pottinger triplets before Dent flung the menu at the one who said he  _ could _ speak Spanish and began telling him what to order for the team. Dent was obsessed with personally monitoring the team’s diet, especially the night before a match.

Ricky Webster, meanwhile, proceeded to regale a fascinated Leonard Cadwallader with his Spanish witch story. “-enormous eyes too, if I didn’t know better I’d say-”

“Ricky!” Natalie kicked him again. He sat directly across from her, Caddy practically leaning on his arm as he listened. “What did I say!”

“You can’t tell me what to do, Malfoy,” Ricky looked smug, his expression then turning salacious. “I only let witches tell me what to do when we’re in bed-”

One of the waitresses, who was taking the translated orders from the only Pottinger triplet who spoke Spanish, giggled and hid her face behind her hands.

Everyone fell silent, staring at her.

Dent finally exploded. “You lot speak English?!” 

“Yes,” she smiled through her fingers and spoke in accentless English. “But it was fun listening to your teammate’s poor Spanish.”

“Tucker, you said you were fluent!” barked Dent, slamming a hand on the table and rattling everyone’s glass of water.

“I’m  _ Ted _ ,” this Pottinger remarked. “And I never said I spoke it fluently.”

“What’s your name, love?” asked Ricky, as loud as he could. He now turned his entire body (and attention) towards this witch and looked her up and down as if devouring her with his eyes.

She blushed and giggled — and Natalie didn’t bother trying to hide her eye-roll. 

“Maria,” said the waitress and the other waiters grew irritated as her voice turned flirtatious. “And I assume you’re the famous Ricky Webster.”

“That I am,” Ricky preened, stretching a hand all the way over his head to then run his fingers through his blond hair. He stroked his jaw with his other hand and gave Maria a very obvious wink. “You doing anything later?”

“Ricky,” interrupted Dent, the captain sounded like he was on the verge of an apoplectic fit. Natalie was having trouble keeping her jaw shut, determined not to break into laughter. It would only aggravate Dent further and make Ricky more determined to find someone to shag. “We have a  _ game _ tomorrow. We’re eating as a team and  _ then  _ you can go shag all the girls in Mexico City.”

Ricky hadn’t even taken his eyes off Maria. “Well, I only know of one girl in Mexico City. . . .”

A snort broke through Natalie’s lips and she had to duck her head under the table as Maria batted her eyelashes and smiled coyly at Ricky.

She stifled her laughter under the table until Dent barked out the rest of the teams orders and the waiters and waitresses disappeared, Maria rather reluctantly.

“Get up, Malfoy,” growled Dent and she popped back up with a wide grin on her face.

“Wow, beautiful, didn’t know you and the captain were  _ involved _ . And at dinner, too, that’s pretty bold. Yet I can’t even flirt with a pretty waitress,” Ricky commented immediately and Natalie stared at him in bewilderment. Then she remembered that this was Ricky Webster, and she was sitting so close to Dent that when she ducked under the table, her head had nearly been in his lap.

“Oh, shut up, Webster,” she rolled her eyes as Dent picked up on what Ricky was insinuating and turned red. “All I was doing was laughing at how bloody stupid you are.”

“I’m not  _ stupid _ ,” he argued and the Pottingers all started sniggering, “everyone knows I have a  _ routine _ the night before a match.”

“And what’s that? Shag the first girl you lay eyes on?” she sneered.

“It’s not always the  _ first _ girl-”

“Wait, you shag before a match?” Leonard Cadwallader’s jaw dropped in amazement. “How?”

“Caddy, Ricky,” snapped Dent, “both of you shut up.”

“Wait,” cried Caddy, “Ricky never finished telling me about the Spanish witch with the huge-”

“No!” growled Natalie. “Nobody wants to hear it!”

“I do,” Caddy looked so dejected everyone almost felt bad for the bloke.

“Isn’t there anything else you lot can talk about?” asked Dent with exasperation.

Natalie shot up in her seat. “I’ve got something, actually.”

Dent gave her a suspicious look as the others eagerly turned to her. “What is it?”

“Our uniforms,” she said, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms, waiting for them to inquire further.

“Well, what about them?” snapped Dent.

“They don’t show off my muscles as well as they could,” said Ricky, like this was a goddamn tragedy.

Cadwallader was once again, flabbergasted. “Your uniform shows off your muscles?” 

“They’re tacky,” Natalie said this loudly, so Ricky and Caddy wouldn’t continue. “I think we should get new ones.”

“We can’t decide that,” said Dent, though he did not sound like he disagreed with her statement. “You gotta take that up with Jack Lament. Or his brother, Matt. It’s probably a whole department thing because it’ll be for the whole team — and we’re in a Cup run.”

“Can they show off my-”

“Shut up!” Natalie and Dent both barked across the table at Ricky Webster, who froze, before a huge smirk appeared on his face.

Natalie bared her teeth, knowing something lewd was about to spill from Ricky’s mouth. But Dent kicked her under the table before waving across the room.

“Oh, hi, Maria!” 

And Ricky whipped around immediately to give the Mexican waitress a charming smile.

Natalie glared at Ricky’s mop of blond curls as he started spilling out the same flirty comments she’d heard in France, Russia, and wherever and whenever else Ricky felt like it.

“Leave it,” Dent warned her.

“Fine,” she muttered, flashing her eyes at the captain. “But on the topic of uniforms-”

“Please tell me you know a wizard-”

“I know a witch, yes.”

* * *

  
  


Winky Crockett and Seymour Mulciber stepped into Bulstrode’s Befittings in Diagon Alley and Crockett sighed, making Mulciber laugh at him. 

“Shut it,” Crockett muttered to Mulciber. 

“You’re the one who insisted on coming here,” Mulciber reminded him. “Matt and Jack said I could come myself. This involves the whole team so it’s technically  _ my  _ job.”

“I’m only here because Malfoy requested it,” grunted Crockett. “She’d have come herself if they weren’t in Mexico.”

“Any word if they’ve won?”

“They should be finishing the game right now,” said Crockett, checking his watch. “Expect we’ll find out soon. Hopefully Dent will send a howler to the Department again.”

“I bloody hope not,” groaned Mulciber, “last time Antonin Dolohov and all of Malfoy’s friends pranced into my office with the howler and nearly destroyed hundreds of important documents. Besides, what sort of bloke sends a  _ howler  _ to announce a  _ victory _ ?”

“Dent,” sniggered Crockett and he tapped the bell on the front desk of the clothing shop. “He’s bloody mental.”

“Morning, what can I do for you — oh,” Quinn Bulstrode popped out from behind a rack of dress robes and spotted the two wizards. “Hello.”

“Hello, Quinn,” greeted Mulciber and he gestured at Crockett, who stepped forward and extended a hand.

“Winky Crockett,” he shook Bulstrode’s hand and smiled as recognition flashed across her face. “We were at Hogwarts together for a bit. I’m Natalie Malfoy’s agent.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said with a smile. “I assume you’re not here to buy robes.”

“Well, that’s somewhat correct,” said Crockett with a grin. Mulciber snorted, making Bulstrode raise an eyebrow. 

“Right,” she laughed and beckoned them to follow her. “This way, then.” She led the two through the shop, behind a pair of dark oak saloon doors and into a small office space in the back.

They took a seat on the plush cushioned couch she gestured them to. In front of it was a rectangular wooden table a shade darker than the desk opposite it. A mountain of paperwork sat on the desk, bewitched to organize and color-code itself. Mulciber looked at it with envy. Crockett had to hide his smirk upon seeing the expression on Mulciber’s face.

Bulstrode flicked her wand and a bottle of gin and glasses appeared. Another flick and the gin poured itself, then floated towards the two wizards.

“I’m assuming this is Quidditch World Cup business?” Bulstrode asked with a grin as they sipped on the gin.

Crockett nodded, swallowing a mouthful of gin before placing the glass on the table before him. “Yes — I know you’re already sponsoring Malfoy, but she was wondering if you’d be interested in another project for the national team-”

“Which is backed by Matt Lament, so you’d have funding from the Department of Magical Sports and Games,” Mulciber jumped in.

Bulstrode took a seat behind the desk and gave them a curious look. “What exactly would this project entail?” she inquired, “and I’d have to pass this by my parents, of course. They still own the place.”

“We know,” said Mulciber, “Malfoy, and by default, the entire national team, claim the current robes they’re using for uniforms are ‘tacky’. So they want new ones. Preferably ones they can wear all the way to the Cup Final, though they might be getting a bit ahead of themselves. Malfoy suggested Bulstrode’s Befittings as the place to get them — and the Department is willing to drop a good number of Galleons if the designs are acceptable.”

Bulstrode leaned forward with excitement, dark curls swinging around her face. “Brilliant! We’d love to do them. I’m sure my parents would be glad to furnish the team with new robes. We did the Cannons uniforms a few years back and they reorder new sets every season. In fact-” she jumped up from the seat, tugged open one of the drawers of the desk and began digging through it, out of sight from the two wizards.

“We should have the Cannon’s designs in here,” she said aloud, “let’s see, I think they were done in forty one. . . yep, here we are!” she pulled out a thick sheet of parchment and brought it around to present to them.

Mulciber took the parchment and scrutinized it, studying the revolving black and red uniform with a critical eye.

“Obviously the coloring and style would be different for the national team,” explained Bulstrode, “and we’d, er, hopefully have a bit bigger budget.”

“Yeah, absolutely, you would,” piped up Crockett with a smug look at Mulciber. He received a glare in return, and Crockett winked. 

“Yes, certainly,” Mulciber then announced, handing the parchment back to Bulstrode. “If you can draw up some preliminary designs, I can get Matt Lament’s approval. Then I’m sure — if they’ve won today’s match — that the team would love to have them for the next round at the end of December.”

Bulstrode beamed. “Of course! How does the end of the week sound?”

“Perfect.”


	18. December 1945: Always the First to Arrive

Lord Voldemort apparated onto the sweeping entrance of the Malfoy family mansion. He had timed his arrival to Tiberius Malfoy’s Christmas Eve party perfectly — he was one of the first ones, if not the first one to arrive, but it was not early enough as to be considered rude. 

Outside the mansion was quiet — the manicured lawns and surrounding thick forest were wrapped in an otherworldly silence as a soft snow coated the world. It fell with such dignity, he felt himself obliged to stop and observe for a moment. All was calm. A rare event.

He stepped towards the arched entry doors and they opened as if expecting his arrival. A house-elf stood on the threshold. It bowed deeply, holding its skinny arms out towards him. He stepped in, swung off his overcoat and dropped it down to the elf. It nearly toppled the creature over. A squeak and a muffled word he couldn’t hear, and the house-elf vanished away with a crack. 

Another house-elf appeared immediately with a popping noise.

“Welcome to the Malfoy-”

“I’ve been here,” he interrupted the elf with an impatient wave of his hand. “Where is the Minister of Magic?”

The elf bowed. “In the main dining room, sir. May I escort-”

“No need,” he said and moved past the elf, making his way into the mansion. Floating white candles, each adorned with tiny evergreen wreaths and scarlet poinsettias lined the long hallway. Portraits of famous members of the Malfoy family hung on the walls. Their painted eyes stared at him as he stalked down the hallway. All had the distinct silver-blond hair and cold gray eyes of the Malfoy lineage, though there were a few brunettes, strawberry blondes, even a redhead or two. 

About halfway down the hall, he paused. Running a hand through his dark hair and adjusting his velvet black dress robes. He had just purchased them a few weeks back; Quinn Bulstrode had tailored them for him at her pleasure. They fit impeccably. Reaching into the hidden pocket, he traced the smooth wood of his wand and inhaled. He would not need his wand tonight — this was considered the highest society of the wizarding world. Anyone who was anybody would be in attendance. And pureblood gatherings generally did not end in magical scuffles.

Lord Voldemort exhaled, narrowing his focus on the little buzzing in the back of his mind until it amplified, growing warm within his chest. Yes. The ring was here, which meant she was here. Upstairs. Not at the main party yet. Perfect. He hadn’t seen her in nearly two months.

Toward the end of the hall, near the doors to the main dining room, he stopped in front of a particular portrait. His eyes found themselves drawn to it. It was Natalie. Except — these were all deceased members of the family. He glanced at the bottom of the ornate frame and read the name.  _ Theia Malfoy.  _ So her mother. He studied the portrait further. The similarities were remarkable, although the more he stared, the more differences he spotted. The hair was too straight, the eyes too soft, the features too blended, and the posture far too relaxed to be Natalie.

“Hello.”

Lord Voldemort nearly jumped out of his skin when the portrait spoke. He immediately felt foolish. Magic existed, of course. The portraits were charmed. They had all done an exceptional job of remaining extremely still as he passed. The image of Theia Malfoy blinked down at him from the plush couch she lounged on and smiled. There was a teasing amusement hiding within her smile and he found himself staring.

“Are you just going to stare at me without saying hello?” the portrait asked, in a manner unnervingly similar to her daughter, though the voice was a bit higher and a lilting accent crept through her words.

“Er, I apologize. Hello-”

“You’re that Tom Riddle boy,” the portrait looked him over, making him feel incredibly self-conscious. He shifted about in his new dress robes, nervous they hadn’t been tailored properly, or maybe the anti-wrinkle charm hadn’t stuck, or perhaps snow had melted through his coat. “Yes, I know you. My mother has told me all about you.”

“Has she?” he slowly asked, not sure what route this was going to take.

“Of course. My mother tells me everything about my daughter.”

Lord Voldemort blinked, suddenly feeling like he was about to get scolded by the portrait of a dead witch who looked a bit like Natalie. “Ah, I see-”

Theia Malfoy cut him off with a wave of her hand. “My mother thinks you’re wasting your talents.” And with that she stood and walked out, long green robes trailing behind her. Tom Riddle found himself staring at an empty portrait frame.

“Don’t mind her,” a voice drew his attention away from the frame and to the door he had been heading towards. Tiberius Malfoy stood in the doorway with a thin flute glass of a bubbling liquid in one hand and a strange expression upon his face.

“My sister was all bark, no bite. . . .” a note of bitterness entered the Minister’s voice, reminding Tom Riddle that Tiberius Malfoy had lost his sister several years ago and then wife this past year. “And that’s probably what got her killed.”

There was silence for a long moment as Lord Voldemort tried to avoid meeting Tiberius Malfoy’s scrutinous gaze, strengthening his Occlumency walls. He knew the Minister was proficient with Legilimency, but he didn’t fancy sharing his thoughts or feelings at the moment. Or ever, really.

Tiberius finally backed down. Taking a long sip from the glass of sparkling liquid, he sent Tom a wink.

“I think you’ve found her daughter to be a bit different.”

“Yes, certainly,” replied Tom, glad the tension had passed between them before he extended a hand and a charming smile. “Minister, Merry Christmas to you.”

“Tom,” Tiberius returned the smile, shook his hand and then clapped an arm around Tom’s shoulders, steering him into the main dining room. “First one here, I believe. Wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

“I would hope not, Minister,” Tom remarked, adding a lighthearted tone to his voice. 

“If I hadn’t known better I’d say you had quite the upbringing,” said Tiberius, “proof it’s all in the blood. You’ve said your mother was a pureblood, I believe? One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, yes?”

“Yes, a Gaunt,” he replied, maintaining a relaxed air upon the mention of his family as he took a moment to study the setup of the large function room. There were small tables arranged all around the room, clearly meant for a night of mingling with many people. Twinkling candles floated about, casting a soft glow. Charmed snowflakes fell from the ceiling, landing only upon the tables, where they heaped in delicate little piles. House-elves were scattered about, holding up trays with an assortment of hors d'oeuvres and glasses full of the same bubbling drink Tiberius clutched. A row of green and silver Christmas trees took up an entire wall of the room. A full size piano centered in the middle of them. A young couple in matching green dress robes sat on the piano bench, and he recognized Abraxas Malfoy and his wife, Melania. They had clearly begun snogging when Tiberius left the room.

“Oh, hello, father!” Abraxas hastily broke away from Melania and jumped up as though nothing was amiss. “And hello, Tom, Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, Tiberius, Melania,” Lord Voldemort greeted them with a smile, hiding his amusement at how embarrassed Melania looked. She hid her face behind her hands and giggled to herself. 

Tiberius had not noticed anything, or pretended not to. “Where is your cousin, Abraxas? Did my mother not insist everyone be ready before the guests arrive?”

“Upstairs, still, I think,” replied Abraxas. “Probably sleeping. She only arrived an hour ago. And it’s her birthday. She hates her birthday.”

“She let that filthy Muggle who called himself her father ruin her birthday,” Tiberius muttered under her breath before he turned back to Tom. “Would you mind going up and bringing her down?”

“My pleasure,” Lord Voldemort dipped his head in a deferential nod and turned to head back to the hallway.

“Oh, wait!” called Abraxas, pausing Tom on his way out. Abraxas snatched two glasses of the sparkling liquid from the nearest house-elf and pushed them into Tom’s hands. “Now you can go.”

Voldemort chuckled and continued on his way. Ignoring the still empty portrait of Theia Malfoy, he headed up the magnificent staircase to the upper floor. At the top, he nearly walked right into Domitia Malfoy.

“Ah, excellent, you’ve arrived!” exclaimed the matriarch of the Malfoy family. She was adorned in shimmering black dress robes that made her powerful aura even more pronounced. “See if you can get my granddaughter up and ready. She’s locked the door and I can’t break the enchantment. Makes me feel my age.”

“I’ll do my best,” he promised as she gestured him past her and towards Natalie’s room.

“And I hope both of those drinks aren’t for her!” warned Domitia.

“Of course not,” he placated her immediately. Domitia made a grumbling noise, a dark shadow passing over her brow before she headed down the stairs. 

Lord Voldemort paused just outside Natalie’s door to take a sip from one of the full glasses. The liquid sparkled and bounced on his tongue, it somehow tasted like cinnamon and warm apple pie, and made his whole body feel wrapped in a warm blanket before a crackling fire. So he took a few more sips. It was almost as addicting as another, similar sensation he was well acquainted with. The feeling of this one with the thought of the other made him giddy.

Balancing both drinks in one hand, he attempted to turn the doorknob. It didn’t budge. Sighing, he allowed the two drinks to hover in the air beside him with a quick nonverbal, wandless charm so he could retrieve the wand he didn’t think he would need to use tonight from his pocket. He should have known better. This was Natalie Malfoy. There was probably some overly complicated, energetically derived enchantment locking the door. The challenge excited him.

So he first tried a simple, nonverbal  _ alohomora _ . 

No luck. And he was already feeling a bit lightheaded from the drink. Whatever was in it must be strong. No wonder Domitia had not wanted Natalie to have both drinks.

He moved to more advanced spells. Then charms. Then some more — darker — spells. He tried a curse, then an anticurse, then another curse, growing more excited and intrigued with every attempt.

Nothing. 

A thought striking him, he tugged on the door handle again. “It’s me,” he muttered, “open the-”

The door clicked open, granting him entrance.

“Of course,” he snorted, returning his wand to his pocket and stepping into the room, the two floating glasses of the incredible drink following him. The room was pitch dark, although when the door swung shut behind him, a silvery-white light appeared near the ceiling, illuminating the room with its gentle beams.

Lord Voldemort found two luminous eyes staring at him from the bed. They were the only things visible under a mountain of thick green and silver blankets. He approached the bed and took a seat near the pair of eyes. A staring contest ensued for a few moments before he reached a hand out, trying to find where she even was underneath all the blankets.

“Ow!” growled Natalie as his hand landed on what felt like her torso. “I’m bruised.”

“From what?” he demanded. “And don’t you have potions for that?”

“Practice,” she grunted, only her eyes still visible to him. “I’ve slept on the floor of our locker room for a month straight. D’you know how many Bludgers I’ve gotten hit with for no reason other than to ‘get used to it’?”

“Don’t you have potions for that?” he repeated.

She grumbled, moving about under the covers. “I wanted to be miserable. I just got here. This is the only break I’ve had in a month. I don’t want to do anything.”

“Well, your family is insisting you join them downstairs. Guests are beginning to arrive.”

“I can see that,” she said with heavy sarcasm before closing her eyes and groaning. “Come to bed.”

“Drink this,” he told her instead, taking the full glass of the sparkling liquid and presenting it to her. Gray eyes snapped open and stared at the glass with suspicion before a pale arm snaked out of the covers to grab it. He spotted a large fading bruise on her forearm as she cautiously took a sip.

“Calm down,” she muttered as if sensing the spike of anger that flashed through him. “They’re healing themselves. Just slowly.”

He didn’t say anything. Rather, watched as she sipped on the liquid, studying the change in her expression as the taste and sensation hit.

“Holy shit,” she softly exclaimed and a shiver ran down his spine as a fresh wave of her energy hit him. It was warm, bubbly, and inviting. Now he wanted to join her in bed. “What is this?”

“I’ve no idea,” he responded and he watched her drain the rest of the glass. Then she flung it away — it vanished in mid-air. She stared directly at him, gray eyes dancing, before reaching past him. Confused, he turned to find what she was reaching for before he realized. The other drink, which he had consumed half of. Domitia Malfoy’s words echoed in his ears as he watched her granddaughter down the rest of the second glass.

“Come to bed,” she demanded again and he had no intention of doing the opposite.


	19. December 1945: It's Called Group Therapy, Try It

Rabastan Lestrange apparated into the sweeping entrance hall of the Malfoy family mansion. His wife, Fabienne — a former member of the Avery family — on his arm. They both had donned their best dress robes and arrived a tad bit late to Tiberius’s Christmas party — as an argument had broken out between Fabienne and Adolphus over when a certain Savanna Rowle would officially be joining their family.

Looking around for his son, who had apparated right behind them, Rabastan sighed. “What could have distracted him this time? All his friends will be here.”

“Perhaps he’s too busy thinking about his little girlfriend. He could at least wait until she graduates Hogwarts to marry her,” scoffed Fabienne, still flushed from the squabble with her son.

A loud pop and Adolphus appeared beside them, looking suave in his charcoal gray dress robes. He rolled his blue eyes, having heard his mother’s comment.

“Yes, mother, I am going to wait until after she graduates to _ marry _ her. But that doesn’t mean I can’t  _ propose _ to her before she graduates. I believe father proposed in your seventh year at Hogwarts.”

“Well,” spluttered Fabienne Lestrange, “that was a different time!”

“Fabi!” called a voice from down the hall, interrupting the family bickering. A tall wizard emerged from a room off the hall, the candles on the walls flickered against his burgundy dress robes and made his light brown hair look black. A cheery smile crossed his face upon spotting the trio.

“How characteristic of you to be late.”

“Duncan!” Fabienne greeted her elder brother with an elegant wave of her hand. “Where’s Terese? And my niece and nephew?”

“Been here for nearly an hour,” remarked Duncan Avery as he approached the group. “What was it this time that kept you? House-elves disobeying?”

“An ill-timed quarrel concerning Adolphus’s love life,” droned Rabastan, sharing a look with his son as his wife turned red.

“Ah, at least he has one!” joked Duncan Avery. “I can’t get my Lloyd to talk about a witch besides the star of the Malfoy family.”

“Oh, is she here?” Adolphus eagerly jumped into the conversation at the mention of Natalie Malfoy, making his mother whisper under her breath. 

“Duncan, what’s all this commotion?” another voice entered the scene. Tiberius Malfoy popped out of the doorway to the main room. A thin glass of fizzing liquid in his hand, his dress robes were an immaculate forest green as he gazed down the hall at them.

“Ah, Rabastan! Fabienne! Adolphus! Welcome! Come in, come in. Apologies the house-elves couldn’t meet you, they’re all tad busy — it seems we’ve gone through more  _ Ebulliosus  _ than expected so I’ve had to send some to fetch more. And my bloody niece set the one my mother gave her free a month ago or so.”

“I heard she had a good reason,” piped up Adolphus.

“Yes, well, I hope she has a good reason for staying upstairs for so long,” remarked Tiberius with a somewhat amused, somewhat exasperated shake of his head. “All her friends have gone up there by now, I believe. If you’d like to join them — or attempt to convince them to come downstairs-”

“Of course, my pleasure!” exclaimed Adolphus and he set off down the hallway towards the grand staircase leading up into the manor. He jogged up the stairs, taking care to not trip over his dress robes as noises swirled through the hall. 

The party was in full swing; merry laughter, lively conversation, the clink of glasses and silverware, and the soft lilting of a piano drifted through the Manor. The babble faded as Adolphus approached the upper floor, though different noises drifted towards him. The laughing and joking of very familiar voices made him grin as he hurried towards the door left slightly ajar.

“Did you miss me?” bellowed Adolphus Lestrange as he burst into Natalie Malfoy’s bedroom.

Natalie yelped at his sudden arrival, dropping her wand in the middle of muttering a charm to curl her hair and making it shoot across the room with a bang. 

It landed directly in front of Tom Riddle. He lounged in an armchair across the room, looking polished in a set of sophisticated dress robes, a thin glass of dancing liquid in his hand. His gaze, which had been on Natalie, moved to study her dropped wand. When it settled to a stop at his feet, he picked it up and tossed it to Evan Rosier, who handed it to Quinn Bulstrode, who handed it to Zacharias Nott, who handed it to Pamela Selwyn, who handed it to Eric Dawson, who handed it back to Natalie.

Lestrange watched this near-comedic act and realized he was the last one to arrive. Evan and Quinn sat on the foot of the large, unmade bed; Quinn adorned in an elaborate maroon dress that was clearly her own design. Zack and Pamela lounged on two floating circle chairs that must have been conjured up; Zack looked to be in the middle of a heated discussion with Evan. And Eric was sitting on top of the ornate dresser beside where Natalie was getting ready, a goofy smirk on his face now that Adolphus had arrived.

Lestrange gaped around at them all. “How bloody late am I?”

“Bloody late,” Dawson commented without missing a beat.

Ignoring his best friend, Lestrange noted only Lord Voldemort and Natalie had glasses of the same drink Tiberius Malfoy had downstairs. If it was  _ Ebulliosus, _ as Tiberius had mentioned, Lestrange already knew it would be a bloody enjoyable party. He had only seen (and not tasted)  _ Ebulliosus _ once, when he was ten years old. He had heard tales about the magical — and alcoholic —drink and was eager to get his hands on some. 

“What’re you lot even doing here? Isn’t there a party downstairs?”

“Somehow they all found out I was still getting ready and decided to gate-crash,” snapped Natalie as she took her wand back from Dawson. She was barefoot, wearing only a silver-colored bathrobe, with her hair half-curled and dark circles under her eyes. Lestrange stared at her, not having seen her look so awful in a long time. The only thing that didn’t look weary about her were her eyes, they had a distinct, luminous glaze about them. As she flicked her wand again, he caught a glimpse of yellowed bruises on one of her forearms. She saw him looking and ran a hand over the bruises. They vanished instantly and she went back to curling her hair.

“Mate, what’re you gonna say?” demanded Dawson as Lestrange gaped, looking towards Lord Voldemort to determine if he should be alarmed or not.

“Huh?” asked Lestrange in bewilderment. Lord Voldemort had a mask for a face, slowly sipping from his glass. Though he hid it well, Natalie did not -- Lestrange knew it was not his, or Natalie’s, first glass of the drink. “Uh, that she looks like shit?”

“It’s her birthday,” said Pamela Selwyn with a roll of her eyes. She gestured to where Natalie stood in front of the mirror, hair all curled, she now completed her makeup with another flick of her wand, wiping away the weariness from her countenance. 

“I knew that — happy birthday-”

“Close the damn door,” said Natalie and she pointed her wand at the bedroom door. It slammed shut after Lestrange, bumping him a few more paces into the room.

Immediately, there was a knock on the door. 

“Who could that be?” wondered Dawson, glancing around the room and counting their numbers. “Savanna?”

“She’s, er, coming later,” said Lestrange, hastily stepping out of the way as Natalie shot across the room to whip the door open. 

Antonin Dolohov stood in the doorway. He grinned upon sighting an incensed Natalie wearing only a bathrobe.

“What do you want?” she demanded, making those present laugh.

“Well, hello to you, too,” said Dolohov and he stepped past her and into the room, noting who was inside. He sent a nod at Lestrange, the closest to the door, and smirked. “Didn’t know this was where the party was happening.”

“It’s not,” explained Rosier with a toothy grin. “This is our group therapy session.”

“Yeah, you should try it,” pitched in Nott.

“Group therapy,” repeated Dolohov in disbelief. His gaze landed on the unmade bed, with green and silver sheets and blankets tossed askew, and his eyes narrowed. “Is that. . . code for something?”

“Yes, complaining,” said Tom Riddle while everyone else launched into their own explanations.

“I was just telling Evan about how annoying the Russians are,” announced Dawson.

“All we hear about is the bloody Russians,” groaned Nott and Rosier mockingly gagged at the words, indicating his agreement.

“I was telling Quinn how annoying  _ you _ are to the Minister’s new interns,” said Selwyn — and Dolohov shot the Minister of Magic’s new secretary a glare at this.

“I was telling Natalie that the national team’s new uniforms should be ready for their next match,” Bulstrode declared with pride. 

“Which they better win,” interjected Dawson.

Bulstrode agreed with a flourish of her dark hair. “Which they better win.”

“Shut up!” yelled Lestrange and Natalie at the exact same time. They awkwardly looked at each other before Natalie continued.

“What happened is this,” she seethed, still staring at herself in the mirror. Her gray eyes trekked all about the room within it, meeting everyone else’s gaze. “I was in here enjoying my break and then someone-” she whipped her head over to shoot a look at Lord Voldemort, “-let himself into my room and got me  _ drunk _ . We were then. . . having a fun time -- until Eric, Zack, Evan, Pam, and Quinn just strolled in because Abraxas and Melania told them I have Firewhiskey in here-”

“You’ve got Firewhiskey?” asked Lestrange, casting a glance between Lord Voldemort and Natalie.

“No!” she groaned, slamming her wand on the dresser. She turned and glared at them.

“And then everyone started complaining-” (Lord Voldemort smirked at her usage of this word), “-about their jobs and lives and whatnot and then Evan called it ‘group therapy’ because he overheard Nobby Leach talking about the ‘group therapy’ sessions he has with his staff at the Ministry-”

“Okay, okay,” Dolohov waved a hand through the air before pointing at the empty glass on the dresser beside her. “But do you have Firewhiskey?”

Natalie glared at him until he took a step backwards and everyone else snickered. Without saying a word, she marched across the room and tugged open the door to her closet. She slipped inside and they heard a lot of stomping, cursing, and shuffling about.

Dawson turned to Dolohov while this happened. “Why are you actually here, though?” 

Dolohov laughed, “oh, yeah, the Minister told me to come and see what was taking his niece so long. He invited the rest of her teammates as a surprise and they’ve just arrived.”

“The rest of the national team is here?” exclaimed Nott and Rosier practically started jumping up and down in his excitement.

“Let’s get their autographs,” a delighted Rosier schemed, making Quinn giggle at his antics.

A loud popping noise from the closet Natalie had entered made them all pause and look around at each other. Lord Voldemort stood and crossed the room with his empty glass. He picked up the glass Natalie had left on the dresser near Dawson, before slipping into the closet, all eyes on him. The others heard a giggle from inside and then Natalie reentered the room. She was now dressed in a long-sleeved dark green dress that hugged her body and ended just above her knees, though she was still barefoot. A glittering bottle of a sloshing liquid in one hand and her now full glass in the other. Lord Voldemort, also with a full glass, and a guilty looking house-elf right behind her.

“Burgywn just purchased this bottle and Mistress Malfoy said not to give the young mistress any more-”

“Be quiet, Burgywn, my friends are here!” snapped Natalie, and the house-elf vanished out of sight with a small pop as Antonin Dolohov’s and Adolphus Lestrange’s jaws dropped for entirely different reasons.

“Bloody hell,” whispered Dolohov, unwilling to say anything else when he felt a sharp gaze scour his face. He briefly met the dark eyes of Lord Voldemort and shivered, trying to clear his mind of the dirty thoughts that crossed it when looking at Natalie Malfoy.

“Bloody hell!” screeched Lestrange, looking outraged. “You bring the drinks out for him but not me? He wasn’t even on the team!”

“I didn’t bring it out for him  _ or  _ you,” she sneered, sauntering across the room and handing the glimmering bottle to a thrilled Eric Dawson. “I brought it out for Eric.”

Another knock on the door interrupted the outburst of laughter that echoed around the room. Though Eric Dawson was the only one to ignore it, as he conjured glasses and started pouring drinks, the  _ Ebulliosus  _ shimmering as he did so.

“Are you bloody serious?” sighed Natalie. Her shoulders slumped, she allowed Lord Voldemort to guide her across the room towards the chair he had been sitting in. He retook his seat and she jumped into his lap, surprisingly agile for wearing a tight-fitting dress though she just missed spilling their drinks. 

“Oops,” she muttered as the tinkling liquid nearly ruined both their outfits. She snatched the drink from his hand and downed half of it, gave it back to him, then took a long sip from her own glass and wrapped her other arm around his neck. Once comfortable, she turned and locked eyes with the person closest to the door.

It happened to be Antonin Dolohov. “Get the door, Antonin,” she ordered and he immediately moved to open the door.

Eugene Dent stood in the doorway, shifting about nervously. When he realized how many people were in the room, he blanched and took a step back.

“Er, hi-”

“Dent?!” exclaimed Natalie, nearly falling out of Tom Riddle’s lap in her astonishment at seeing the national team captain in her family house — and in the doorway to her bedroom. Voldemort managed to hold her steady, removing the glass from her hand and finishing off the remaining  _ Ebulliosus _ in it. His own glass had already been emptied. “What’re you doing here?”

“Er, the Minister invited me,” he explained, now blushing upon sighting his Seeker in a flattering dress and in the lap of someone who definitely looked capable of murdering him without a second thought.

“He invited you?” she gaped at him. The rest of the room had gone silent, glancing from Natalie to Dent like an entertaining Quidditch match.

“Wait,” said Rosier, narrowing his eyes between Natalie and Dent before recognition flashed across his face. “This is — you’re the captain of the national team!”

“Er, yeah, I am-” began Dent but the room seemed to explode.

“YOU WEREN’T GONNA INTRODUCE US?” an apoplectic Lestrange turned bright red as he glared at a taken-aback Natalie Malfoy.

“Eugene Dent, right?” Nott had flown across the room to shake his hand. “I’m Zacharias Nott. You can call me Zack-”

“I wanna shake his hand, too!” insisted Dawson, abandoning the newly cracked bottle of  _ Ebulliosus,  _ he pushed Nott out of the way and scooped Dent’s hand up in his own. “An absolute pleasure, Mr. Dent-”

“Get out of my way, Eric,” snapped Rosier and he was next to vigorously shake Dent’s hand. “I’m Evan Rosier, it’s lovely to meet you-”

“Let him breathe,” groaned Pamela as she and Quinn attempted to restrain their boyfriends from smothering the Quidditch player.

Antonin Dolohov pulled Dawson away from Dent just so he could step around him and shake Dent’s hand himself.

“Antonin Dolohov, I can spell it if you need-”

“Alright!” yelled Natalie from Tom’s Riddle’s lap. “Get away from my captain, you lot.”

“Woah, that sounds weird,” commented Lestrange as Dawson went to offer Dent a glass of the dancing liquid, which he refused.

“Dent, what’re you doing in my bedroom?” asked Natalie and snickers erupted.

Eugene Dent blushed again. “Er, the Minister sent me up to see what was taking his assistant so long to see what was taking  _ you _ so long-”

“Group therapy,” remarked Dolohov with a smirk. He had snagged one of the glasses Dawson had poured and now lounged on the unmade bed, lazily sipping from the glass. 

Dent blinked, looking to Natalie for understanding. “What?”

“Everyone here has bloody bitched about their issues while I’ve tried to get ready,” Natalie rolled her eyes, resting her head on Tom Riddle’s shoulder. “You can tell my Uncle that.”

“Can’t the Minister’s assistant tell him that?” asked Lestrange with a smirk as he raised a sarcastic eyebrow at Dolohov.

“I’m not telling the Minister that-” began Dolohov but Natalie let out a feline yelp, scrambled out of Tom Riddle’s arms and flew to her feet. She gazed at Eugene Dent with enormous gray eyes, her breath coming in short gasps and making everyone freeze and stare at her. A taut silence seemed to stretch across the room, making all present shift in discomfort as they watched her shoulders rise and fall with every breath until she could choke out a few words.

“Wait, if you’re here — is the rest of the team here?”

“Yes,” Dent replied with a wince. “Ricky already asked Melania Malfoy if she was single and Caddy asked the Minister of Magic what his job was.”

The former members of the Slytherin Quidditch team looked at each other before bursting into hoots of laughter.

“No,” groaned Natalie and she dramatically fell to the floor at Tom Riddle’s feet, somehow managing to sit in the tight dress with her legs criss-crossed. “And the Pottingers?”

“Also here,” said Dent, “they saw me coming up here too, so I dunno-”

“Shit!” she leapt back up to her feet, and tension bloomed as a sudden wave of trepidation hit everyone in the room. “Close the door!” she pointed wildly at the open door and Dent immediately clicked it shut behind himself. Natalie retrieved her wand and squeaked a spell to lock it.

“The Pottingers?” frowned Lestrange. He was now sprawled across her bed beside Dolohov with a glass of  _ Ebulliosus  _ in his hand. Dawson joined the two of them, pushing Rosier and Bulstrode off. (Quinn conjured a couple of the same circle seats that Selwyn and Nott sat on). “Aren’t they the national team Chasers?”

“Yes, but I’m convinced they aren’t real,” said Natalie with a shudder. She dropped back to the floor, settling herself between Tom Riddle’s feet with a sigh.

“What?” asked Rosier, sounding incredulous. He, Nott, Bulstrode, and Selwyn all had glasses of  _ Ebulliosus  _ in their hands by now while Dolohov was already on his second glass. It was clear the effects of the magical drink were being felt. The witches had started giggling under their breath and the wizards looked a bit dazed.

“Where do we begin,” laughed Dent. Dawson and Lestrange insisted he join them on the mass of pillows they had piled up on Natalie’s bed. They all lounged on the green silken blankets and pillows like Roman patricians with their  _ Ebulliosus  _ and dress robes.

“Ugh,” groaned Natalie, leaning back against Lord Voldemort’s legs and pointing her wand at the nearly empty bottle of  _ Ebulliosus _ . It hovered over towards her and emptied itself into her waiting glass. She took a long drink and then snapped, “Burgywn!”

The house-elf reappeared again with a crack. Bowing low to the ground and trembling as it addressed her. “Yes, Mistress-”

“We’ll need more,” Natalie let the empty bottle of  _ Ebulliosus  _ float towards the elf. It was almost as big as the elf’s entire head. Burgywn took the bottle from the air and disappeared. Instantaneously, a fresh bottle appeared between Dolohov and Lestrange. They crowed their delight and popped it open immediately.

Natalie returned to addressing the room. “Wait till you lot hear about Ricky Webster.”

“Oh, who needs group therapy now?” teased Rosier as he slowly spun on his floating chair. 

“Shut up, Evan,” she shot at him, though she closed her eyes and grew still as Tom Riddle started absent-mindedly playing with her curled hair. But then she grew stiff and snapped her eyes open again. “Actually, I do.”

“Seriously?” exclaimed Nott, “you play for the national team. How hard could your life be-”

“Zacharias!” she exclaimed, leaning forward so she could easily glare up at him from her position on the floor. Tom’s grip on her hair holding her back from jumping forward. “Let me tell you a thing or two-”

“Hold up!” yelled Lestrange, he clutched his glass of  _ Ebulliosus  _ and glanced around at them. “Where’s Lloyd?”

The room was silent for a moment before Natalie exploded. “Somebody go get him!”

“Not it!” rang out from around the room while Dent just looked confused. 

“Who’s Lloyd?” he asked.

“Works for the Prophet, guess you could say he’s our friend, bloke’s got the nicest handwriting I’ve ever seen — nicer than Eric’s here,” explained Lestrange, eager at having something to talk about with the English team captain.

“Adolphus!” called Natalie. “Go get Avery!”

Lestrange looked flabbergasted as he turned away from Dent to stare in shock at Natalie. He gestured to his comfortable position on the bed beside the national team captain. “Why me?”

“Lestrange, go get Avery,” repeated Lord Voldemort, sounding bored and impatient. 

“Fine, alright, I will,” said Lestrange and he hopped off the bed and crossed the room, bringing his drink with him. “Can someone unlock the door-”

Dolohov lazily lifted his wand and muttered “ _ alohomora”. _ The door clicked open and Lestrange slipped out, muttering under his breath.

“Why would you bother locking it if it could be opened with  _ alohomora _ ?” asked Rosier. Quinn Bulstrode had pushed their floating seats together and laid her head on his shoulder. 

Dent scoffed, “it would keep Caddy and Ricky out. I don’t think the blokes even know  _ alohomora. _ ” Then he looked directly at Natalie before his eyes slid above her to Tom Riddle. “So. . . this is the boyfriend?”

“No,” she said with heavy sarcasm and an air of finality. Everyone else dropped into silence and after a few seconds, sweat could be seen beading on Dent’s forehead. Lord Voldemort allowed a vicious smirk to grace his face, enjoying the fear emanating from the national team captain.

“I, er, what-”

“I’m joking, Dent,” giggled Natalie after she savored a few moments of her captain floundering. “He is. Told you he’s real. Maybe we should bring Ricky up here to prove it to him.”

“Ricky Webster?” asked Nott as he refilled his and Pam’s glasses. “I heard he’s got the best arm this side of the Atlantic.”

“Do not, do  _ not _ say that within his hearing,” said Natalie with a groan. “He’s already unbearable enough.”

“Is it true his girlfriend’s part Veela?” inquired Rosier, making Quinn Bulstrode glare at him. He shrugged, mouthing to her, “I just wanna know.”

Dent pressed a hand to his forehead and Natalie let out a strangled noise, slumping back against Tom Riddle. Dolohov and Dawson hid their laughter behind their half-emptied glasses.

“This is why,” Natalie said weakly, “this is why I need group therapy.”

“Beautiful!” crooned the voice of the very wizard they were discussing. “You need group therapy? Is it because your boyfriend dumped you?”

Natalie, in the middle of taking a swig of  _ Ebulliosus _ , started choking on it as Ricky Webster stepped into the room through the door they hadn’t bothered closing after Lestrange. Leonard Cadwallader tailing him like a lost puppy. While Webster looked suave and arrogant in brilliant scarlet dress robes, Caddy kept shifting awkwardly and looked awestruck by the number of people in the room.

Adolphus Lestrange and Lloyd Avery slipped in behind them, quietly closing the door and looking rather guilty. Avery quickly moved to sit in the corner, out of the way of what was bound to become a scene.

“They, er followed me up-” began Lestrange, his sheepishness evident.

“Her boyfriend dumped her?” asked Caddy and he looked to where Natalie was now trying to hide her face in Tom Riddle’s dress robes after he muttered a spell to clear her throat. “So you’re single now?”

“No,” Dent sprang to his feet and attempted to take control of the situation. He could feel its potential to go downhill rising as all eyes latched themselves to the newcomers. “Ricky, Caddy, you aren’t supposed to be up here.”

“What’re you lot doing up here, then?” demanded Ricky. His eyes then landed on the bottle of  _ Ebulliosus  _ between Dolohov and Dawson. “Wait, you’ve got drinks-”

“They’ve got drinks?” repeated Caddy, now excited. “And Malfoy’s single? This is a great Christmas-”

Natalie, by this point, had completely turned around and was staring up at Tom Riddle from the floor at his feet. He hadn’t reacted to the new arrivals, merely sipped his drink and stared back at her. She could see the amusement dancing within his dark eyes and a laugh rose within her. She buried her face within his robes and attempted to stifle her uncontrollable laughter.

“Say, aren’t you two the Beaters on the national team?” Eric Dawson called from the bed, drawing Ricky and Caddy’s attention.

Ricky, ego stroked, straightened his back and flexed his biceps through his dress robes. “Why, yes, of course. I will say I’m rather recognizable off the field as well-”

“Yes, we are!” Caddy piped up in excitement, walking right into Ricky, who was quick to shove him away. Ricky smoothed out his dress robes and ran a hand through his hair (which had very meticulously been gelled or charmed), glancing at Selwyn and Bulstrode and noting their close proximity to Nott and Rosier. 

“Is everyone in here taken?” Ricky frowned as his gaze slid back to Natalie, still sitting on the floor at Tom Riddle’s feet. “Except Malfoy? Knew I woke up feeling lucky.”

“Is this bloke bloody dense?” Dolohov snorted from the bed, glass of  _ Ebulliosus  _ nearly gone, he looked around the room, smirking when Dent sent him a subtle nod.

“Hey, Eric’s not taken,” Lestrange pointed across the room to Dawson, lounging beside Dolohov. “Neither is Antonin -- right?”

Ricky’s scouring gaze studied the two wizards with the most attitude lounging on the bed. After a moment of silence, he shook his head with a definitive air.

“Not my type. I’m extremely selective-” a sputtering sound interrupted him and the room turned to watch Natalie pop up from trying to hide in Tom’s robes to gawk at Ricky.

“You?  _ Selective? _ You sleep with any witch --  _ or  _ muggle -- you lay eyes on!”

“Well,  _ they  _ aren’t witches, are they, Malfoy?” snapped Ricky, once again running his hand through his hair and pushing Leonard Cadwallader away from him. He shot a wink at Quinn Bulstrode, who giggled and started wrapping her dark curls around her fingers, to the distress of Evan Rosier.

“He’s just a Quidditch player! I played Quidditch!” Rosier whined at his girlfriend. “I can’t get his autograph but you can flirt with him?”

“Oh, shush,” Bulstrode lightly whacked him across the arm. “He’s  _ famous _ .”

Adolphus Lestrange cleared his throat, obviously about to make a scene. He gestured at Ricky Webster and addressed the entire room. “I think we should talk about how this bloke here called my best mate Eric ugly. You too, Antonin, but we aren’t best mates.”

“I don’t think they’re ugly,” Caddy pitched in, hopefully glancing around the room for attention but being ignored.

“Yeah, what’s with that?” Rosier loudly took Lestrange’s bait after Ricky’s attempt at flirting with his girlfriend. “Calling my mates ugly? Who do you think you are?”

Ricky looked completely unperturbed. “I’m Ricky Webster-”

“Alright!” barked Dent, silencing the room. He stood near the door and surveyed all present with sharp eyes. “Everyone-” Dent stopped himself because he saw Natalie snap her head towards him. He knew her well enough to know from the look on her face that she was listening to something he couldn’t hear. So he turned just as there was a brisk rap on the door behind him and a demanding voice from the hallway outside called, 

“What is going on in there?”


	20. December 1945: The Actual Party

Tiberius Malfoy, the Minister of Magic, stood in the doorway of Natalie’s bedroom. A half consumed glass of the bubbling liquid that was the hit of the night in his hand, he gazed around for a long moment before sighing. Closing his eyes, he pressed his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose. His personal assistant, his secretary, his niece, the children — and employees — of his closest friends, and most of the English national Quidditch team were somehow all in his niece’s bedroom, which smelled strongly of the ubiquitous  _ Ebulliosus.  _ Most of those present had glasses of the drink in their hands, and Tiberius suddenly knew why he had to send his elves to purchase more.

Without opening his eyes, he repeated, “what is going on here?”

“Er, group therapy?” offered Antonin Dolohov, pushing the bottle of  _ Ebulliosus _ towards Adolphus Lestrange while his boss wasn’t looking. Lestrange made an offended noise and shoved the bottle back towards Dolohov. A tussle ensued.

Tiberius opened his eyes and looked around again. Freezing Dolohov and Lestrange, with the  _ Ebulliosus  _ bottle halfway between them. Nobody else had moved and everyone had varying expressions of guilt shining through the glaze lended by the  _ Ebulliosus _ . He sighed again and took a long sip from his own glass, his gaze roving the room until it landed on his niece, who still sat on the floor directly opposing the door.

Natalie sheepishly smiled at her uncle before climbing to her feet, placing a hand on the arm of the chair Tom Riddle sat in to steady herself. She’d been drinking continuously for well over an hour — but  _ Ebulliosus  _ was no Firewhiskey. Little candles seemed to twinkle and flicker all over her, giving her a warm glow both inside and outside her body. She shivered as a wave of heat crashed through her skin, rising and falling like the incessant tide on a tropical beach.

“Um. . . group therapy can happen downstairs?” she offered, tilting her head and running a hand through her blonde hair. The curling charm still held. 

“Yes, I believe it can,” announced Tiberius and he began ushering all present out of the room. Natalie remained standing near the armchair with Lord Voldemort, ignoring the others as they awkwardly shuffled past the Minister of Magic, most trying to bring their drinks with them. Antonin Dolohov refused to meet the Minister’s eyes as he slunk out of the room, hiding his drink with a quick invisibility charm.

Natalie prowled a few paces towards the mirror she had used a while ago to charm her hair and makeup. She stared into it and blinked, taking a step back in shock upon meeting her own eyes in the mirror. They glowed with an incandescent glare. She blinked again, noting how slowly her eyelids dropped and then rose. The  _ Ebulliosus. _ She glanced towards Tiberius, noting the drink in his hand, and then looked back at herself in the mirror. Her makeup remained flawless, her hair bounced in light curls down her back, and the dress had been made and charmed by Quinn to allow her full freedom of movement, despite it looking like a second layer of skin. 

She glanced back at her eyes, studying them intently for a long moment. It was Christmas Eve; everyone downstairs would also be inebriated, so they would all probably have the same languorous droop within their eyes and hopefully they wouldn’t remember it was her birthday-

Movement in the mirror jolted her out of her thoughts. Tom Riddle had come to stand behind her. His dark eyes pierced her’s within the mirror and he laid a hand on her shoulder. When he spoke, his words sounded like creamy milk chocolate melting on her tongue.

“Are you coming downstairs?”

“Yes,” she replied, taking one last look at herself in the mirror before turning to where Tiberius impatiently stood in the doorway. Her friends and teammates had already joined the actual party downstairs, leaving the three of them.

The Minister of Magic scanned her with imperious gray eyes. “How much have you drank?” 

“How much have  _ you _ drank?” Natalie countered.

Tiberius gave her a look. “The legal limit established in 1912 was half a bottle of  _ Ebulliosus _ per wizard — or witch.”

“Oh,” Natalie nervously laughed, walking across the room towards the door, Tom following. With every step, the warm tide within her ebbed and flowed, making her giddy. Palms tingling, she rubbed her hands together and briefly wondered where her glass had ended up. “I didn’t know there was a legal limit.”

She heard Tiberius sigh as she walked past him, and she began humming to herself.  _ Ebulliosus _ was much more fun to be intoxicated on than Firewhiskey. The magical drink rocked her gently in a boat in a quaint little harbor under a caressing summer sun. She heard Tiberius mutter something that sounded like “bloody expensive” to Tom before she stepped out into the hallway.

Pausing there and glancing down, she remembered she was still barefoot. 

“Oh well,” she mumbled to herself, as it wasn’t like she would be going outside. Approaching the staircase, she realized how thrilling it would be to walk down the stairs while the waves of  _ Ebulliosus  _ rose and fell within her. A giggle escaped her lips as she took one step down, then another, and another — savoring the rhythmic rocking until she found herself at the bottom staring at all the floating candles adorned with tiny poinsettias.

She liked the poinsettias. She liked the poinsettias a lot. There was something fascinating about them. Perhaps it was their striking aesthetic. Deep red petals and forest green leaves against the pure white wax of the candles. The leaves were very nearly the same color as her dress! Now, there was a clever idea-

“What did you just do?” a voice sliced through her swaying mind and she glanced behind her. There stood Lord Voldemort; the flickering lights of the candles reflecting off the sharp angles of his face, leaving his eyes in darkness, though she could feel his gaze scouring her.

Following the feel of his eyes, she looked down and bared her teeth in a grin. Scarlet poinsettias had threaded themselves into the stitching of the dark green dress she wore, blending into the fabric as though the garment had been woven with them already there. She ran a hand over the one on her upper thigh and laughed. It was the same material as the dress yet looked like a real flower. A sudden desire to show Quinn Bulstrode seized her.

Natalie looked back up at Lord Voldemort. “Finally finished getting ready.”

She could hear his eyes roll as Tiberius strolled past them and remarked, “about time.” The Minister slipped through the ajar door leading to the main function room, leaving the two of them in the dim hallway. 

Natalie stared at Tom. “How drunk are you?”  
He ignored her question, looped his arm through hers and led her after Tiberius. Stepping into the room was like letting a wave of sensory stimulation crash over her. Natalie winced, blinking briefly before glancing around. A hundred and one different conversations were taking place, and yet lilting notes of a piano drifted through the room as if it was empty. _Ebulliosus_ permeated the air, its scent alone completely intoxicating. The holiday theme had been capitalized upon by most guests — witches twirled about in red, green, silver, and gold, while wizards were clad in similar, though generally darker garb. Magical snow drifted down, piling onto the scattered tables, where it would occasionally be swept off by a sleeve and vanish with a twinkle.

“Slughorn,” Natalie heard Tom mutter and her gaze snapped onto her old Potions professor, who had evidently just spotted them enter the room from where he stood, sampling every hors d'oeuvre on a tray held by a house-elf.

“No,” groaned Natalie, squeezing her eyes shut. “I don’t want to see him.”

A clanging noise, a squeaky yelp, a chuckle from Tom, and she found herself pulled in a different direction. Bewildered, she snapped her eyes open and peered through the crowded room to witness the house-elf banging its head with the emptied serving tray, as a bright orange dipping sauce was now splattered across the velvet slippers of an irate Horace Slughorn, the remains of whatever else had been on the tray scattered all over the floor.

“Be a little less obvious next time, I’d say,” Tom muttered in her ear as he pulled her into a circle of laughing witches and wizards.

“What-” she began to question his meaning before she realized who stood around her. “Neil! Neil Lament, bloody hell!” she crowed the name of her old teammate and launched herself at the redhead for a hug. Laughing, he just managed to catch her — another familiar face grabbing the glass in his hand before it could drop to the floor. 

“And Cassie!” yelled Natalie upon seeing that the person who caught Neil’s glass was in fact Cassiopeia Black. “You’re here too!”

“Everyone is,” said Cato Greengrass, another former Slytherin teammate.

“Bloody hell,” breathed Natalie as she untangled herself from Neil and Cassie. Looking about, she realized Cato was right. Lestrange, Dawson, Savanna Rowle, Rosier and Bulstrode, Nott and Selwyn, and Avery were all standing about in a massive circle; Giles Morrison and Jonathan Shaw were nearby, speaking to Alphard and Walburga Black, while Orion and Callidora Black watched them with silly grins on their faces, likely making fun of whatever was being spoken about. Willow Avery, Lloyd’s younger sister, hung at her brother’s elbow, gawking around at the crowd. Abraxas was near the piano, which Melania Malfoy gracefully played. Antonin Dolohov, Seymour Mulciber, and Winky Crockett gathered there as well, with drinks in their hands, laughing about something Dolohov had just said. She even spotted Ignatius and Lucretia (formerly a Black) Prewett speaking with the individual who had asked her for an autograph at the Leaky — Lancelot Prewett. Letting her eyes roam further, she watched redheaded identical twin boys run away from Eugene Dent, clutching pieces of parchment. Two other young boys then ran up to Dent. Natalie recognized the second pair as Vincent and Wesley Crabbe, who had asked for her autograph at Borgin and Burke’s.

“Bloody hell,” repeated Natalie and she giggled as an idea struck. “Raise your hand if you’re related to someone here.”

Nearly everyone within earshot put a hand in the air — just as Horace Slughorn stepped into the scene.

“Oh, are we voting on something? I do love a good democratic conductance of opinions,” the Hogwarts professor patted his rotund belly and snagged a miniature cooked shrimp from the house-elf trying to sneak around Rosier.

“Yes, actually!” exclaimed Natalie, eyes glued to the shrimp in Slughorn’s hand. “We were about to vote on the best dipping sauce for whatever it is you’re eating-”

“I do hope it’s not the one on your shoes, Professor,” Lestrange interjected with a toothy grin. “Else that’d be a shame.”

Slughorn ate up the turning of the conversation towards himself without hesitation, despite it being fairly obvious half the group hid their laughter in their glasses or behind a hand. Natalie took the opportunity to grab Tom Riddle by the arm and duck away from the group, as Slughorn dejectedly proclaimed, “it is a shame, because it was indeed, the tastiest-”

“This is ridiculous,” muttered Natalie as she and Tom wove through the crowd. She thanked Merlin the floating candles only sent a weak light throughout the room, making it easy to avoid being recognized. The two of them slithered through the party, not entirely sure of their destination.

Tom finally slowed as they slunk past Domitia Malfoy, who happened to be in a heated conversation with Melania and Arcturus Black, the parents of Orion and Lucretia, and another witch with dark red hair whom Natalie did not recognize. “Where are you dragging me to?”

“Uh, not sure,” she said, just as her stomach started growling as she accidentally made eye contact with her grandmother, who summoned her immediately.

“Natalie! Come here!” called Domitia Malfoy in a stern voice. She beckoned her granddaughter over with one hand and held the other hand up to the three she was speaking with, pausing their conversation.

Natalie slowly approached, still dragging Lord Voldemort after her.

“So you’ve finally made it downstairs,” Domitia announced, handing her glass off to Melania Black and running a hand through Natalie’s blonde curls, another patting the arms and shoulders of her dress. “What’ve you done to the dress?”

“Er, made it better?” Natalie timidly offered. 

“Is that what you’ve been doing upstairs? Did you get that Bulstrode girl to do it for you?”

“No, this was more of a whim,” said Tom, with a smirk on his lips that only Natalie could see as she shot a glare at him. He gave her a polite smile back, the kind she knew was fake, and he bent down slightly to whisper in her ear. “Let go of my hand before you break my fingers.”

Natalie blinked, not having realized she gripped his hand so tight. She released his hand, and he straightened back up, plastering a graceful smile on his face as Domitia had begun introducing him to the Blacks and the witch whom Natalie still hadn’t determined the identity of. She was young enough to have attended Hogwarts recently, and looked like she could be related to some others at the party, but Natalie couldn’t put a finger on when she could have graduated or who she shared blood with.

“-Head Boy at Hogwarts as well, and yet works for my uncle -- on my father’s side -- Caractacus Burke, you know him-”

“Domitia, your granddaughter doesn’t know who I am,” the witch interrupted the Malfoy matriarch and Natalie averted her gaze, realizing she had been staring the whole time. Eyes now stuck on a spot on the floor, she heard Tom chuckle beside her and felt annoyance wash over her grandmother. 

“I wouldn’t call that surprising,” Domitia snapped with so much venom, Natalie’s gaze shot back up to observe. “I don’t believe she’s ever met you.”

“Please,” Arcturus Black stepped in with a smooth wave of his hand, more than hinting at his pureblood breeding. “Muriel is the aunt of our Lucretia’s husband, Ignatius Prewett.”

“Oh,” Natalie blinked at the finality in this statement, as if it explained the witch’s impudence for interrupting Domitia Malfoy. “Er, hello, I’m Natalie Malfoy-”

“No need to introduce yourself, everyone already knows who you are,” laughed Muriel Prewett. “I’ve seen you in nearly every copy of the Prophet.”

“Yes, isn’t it amusing how playing for the national team during a Quidditch world cup year does that,” hissed Domitia Malfoy, making Natalie avert her gaze again. She had no desire to become ensnared in whatever bad blood their tones indicated. Stomach rumbling its hunger, her eyes found themselves drawn to the jumble of house-elves holding up serving dishes. And she spotted a familiar figure amongst them.

“Oh, uh, my captain is calling me,” she sank into a little bow to the group of Domitia, the Blacks, and Muriel. “I’ve got to go see what he wants.” And she snatched Tom’s hand again and bolted away, enticed by the scent of food washing over her and making goosebumps appear on her skin.

She didn’t unleash his hand until she popped up beside Eugene Dent, nearly panting from having shot across the large room so quickly. The house-elves let out little yelps as she appeared, several almost dropping the trays of food they bore.

“Bloody hell-” Dent flinched and began coughing, choking on whatever he had just placed in his mouth. “Where — you-”

“Hungry,” she explained, releasing Tom’s hand and snatching up one of the shrimp she had seen Slughorn eating. Finding a tray with the various dipping sauces as Lord Voldemort had the decency to retrieve his wand and mutter a spell to clear the national team captain’s throat. 

“Er. . . thanks,” muttered Dent once he could breathe again, glancing at Tom Riddle with a sort of respect and nodding. Then he looked back at his Seeker and watched her shove another piece of shrimp into her mouth. “You would’ve let me die.”

Natalie, in the middle of deciding whether she liked the horseradish or jugenberry sauce better, looked up at Dent and shrugged. Gesturing to Tom with the piece of shrimp in her hand, she drawled, “he had it handled.” She gave her captain a sweet smile, dipped the shrimp into what looked like some sort of mustard-type sauce, and popped it into her mouth. Placing a hand on the house-elf’s head to prevent it from scurrying away, she looked down and stared at the house-elf for a long moment.

“Oh, hi, Jubbal,” she greeted the elf once recognition flushed through the waves of  _ Ebulliosus  _ still rumbling within her _. _ “Please stay, I want to try all these-”

“It obviously would rather you not do that,” Tom finally spoke to point out that the tiny elf was trembling under Natalie’s hand. She stared down, noted the fear within the elf’s huge eyes and sighed, releasing the elf and stepping away. Jubbal scurried off with the dipping sauces and Natalie mournfully watched her go. The other elves were quick to follow.

Dent stared after the elves before looking back at Natalie. “What the-”

“Shut up,” she snapped at Dent before he could get the question out. He held his hands up in defense. 

“Nevermind then.”

Voldemort cleared his throat and nodded his head in the direction of an incoming Evan Rosier. “This looks interesting.” A huge grin lit up Rosier’s face, his blond hair looked damp as he approached them, and a few stray flakes of snow (Natalie figured it was real snow given the state of his hair) were scattered along the shoulders of his dress robes. Once within ear shot, he pointed at each of them and mouthed a few words.

Natalie scoffed at his antics, clueless as to what he was trying to communicate. “What the hell is he doing, why can’t he just say whatever it is-”

“Come outside,” both Tom and Dent translated for her at the same time.

“Oh,” she looked between the two of them and raised an eyebrow. A tension passed over the two wizards as each met the other’s gaze. They held eye contact for several minutes, which Natalie found exceptionally amusing. Something about Tom Riddle and Eugene Dent facing off was hilarious to her. Perhaps because she knew that somewhere, buried underneath their pretensions and professionalism, each harbored a simmering jealousy of the other.

By the time she started giggling, Dent broke the stare, looking down at the floor instead. Lord Voldemort smirked, tossing a look at Natalie as Rosier decided to join them. 

“Come outside,” he said aloud this time, adding in several eager hand motions. “C’mon, we’re having fun instead of being in this stuffy room-”

Natalie didn’t need any more motivation. She looped her arm through Rosier’s and turned them towards the exit of the room. “Let’s go.”

With a laugh, he guided her through the crowd, Tom and Dent close behind them. They had to duck their heads as Slughorn came dangerously close, but soon escaped out into the freedom of the hallway. Their shoulders all slumped in relaxation once leaving the main room of the party and they shared a look between themselves, collectively breathing a sigh of relief.

“Party too much for you?” came a voice a few paces down the hall. Natalie froze, recognizing the voice immediately. Maybe it was the  _ Ebulliosus  _ distorting reality a bit more. . . .

“ _ Mom _ ?!” she exclaimed, tugging her arm free from Rosier and bolting down the hall to where she’d heard the voice. Looking around frantically but unable to find the source. “Hello?”

“Here,” said the voice, and Natalie snapped her head towards the wall, jaw dropping and heart kicking into overdrive. Illuminated by the floating candles was the portrait of her mother which had always been empty. 

Natalie gaped, barely aware the three boys had followed and stood behind her with an air of reverential respect. “What — why are you here?”

“This is my portrait, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I’ve never seen you in it-”

“Happy birthday, dear,” a smile appeared on the painted lips of Theia Malfoy. “And merry Christmas-”

“No!” Natalie growled, the words coming out of her mouth like an unexpected waterfall. Dropping over the cliff before she even knew it. “Don’t say that to me. Don’t remind me. I don’t want to think about you. Or. . . or my father-”

The portrait seemed to darken, the smile disappearing — replaced with solemnity. “I did love your father-” began Theia, but Natalie had already heard enough.

“HE KILLED YOU!” she yelled, taking a step towards the portrait and shaking off the hands that had reached out to grab her. All she could see were her mother’s pale eyes within the frame. Lifeless and haunted. Nothing but oil on alabaster. The portrait wasn’t her mother. Her mother was dead. This was a fraud. A caricature. Just like her father had been. “AND YOU LET HIM! YOU HAD MAGIC AND YOU DID NOTHING-” she never finished her tirade. Arms wrapped around her, dragging her backwards as a loud crack shattered the quiet hallway. The candles blew out with a whoosh, blanketing them in darkness. Natalie felt a rush of air as the frame toppled forward, crashing down to the soft carpet of the hall with an explosive burst that made her eardrums pop. Silence returned, with nothing but her labored breathing to puncture it. There was still an arm, or two, or three, or four wrapped around her, keeping her away from the destroyed frame that now lay on the floor, defeated. She didn’t know if it was Tom, or Dent, or Rosier who held her away from it, or all three. But she didn’t care. She would have leapt onto the frame with the savagery of a wild beast had the arms holding her not begun dragging her away, down the dark hallway. 

Someone — it sounded like Rosier — muttered something along the lines of, “er, how about we go have some nice, carefree, fun?”

Next thing she knew, the front doors of the Manor were wrenched open and they piled out into the chilly winter night. Jolted by the cold air, Natalie shivered, blinking and glancing around curiously. Thoughts of her parents slowly melting away as she breathed in the crisp air of the Christmas Eve night. Snow still drifted down from the gray skies, but the wind had picked up, biting at their faces with its blustery temperament. On the manicured front lawn of the manor, romped two familiar wizards. Conjuring creatures out of the piling snow and having them face off against each other, to the delight of those who served as their audience.

“Look who decided to join us!” called a rowdy voice she recognized as Adolphus Lestrange. He controlled an enormous snow dragon that was roaring at another equally large snow dragon controlled by Eric Dawson. 

“Got delayed!” shouted Evan Rosier, the wind carrying his voice down to them. Natalie, now eager to watch whatever was going on here, attempted to pull free from the arm still wrapped around her waist. But she was tugged backwards. Looking up, she found Tom Riddle staring down at her, his arm secure around her as if she was liable to fall down. Dent right behind him, gaping at her as though he’d never seen her before.

“Let’s watch,” she insisted, peeling his arm from around her and looping it through hers. She led them across the sheltered porch that ran along the side of the manor to where the group of Quinn Bulstrode, Pamela Selwyn, Savanna Rowle, Zacharias Nott, and Lloyd Avery and his little sister, Willow Avery, stood watching the snow dragon fight. Though sheltered from most of the fury of the elements under the covered porch, the snow and wind still found their way to whip the witches’ hair about and pattern the wizards’ dark dress robes with speckles of white. 

The group greeted the new arrivals with whoops and cheers, except Willow, who shyly waved at them. The eleven year old’s face was cherry red and her eyes shone with a strong  _ Ebulliosus- _ induced glaze.

Quinn greeted Evan with a bear hug, as though they had been parted for ages. She planted a kiss on each of his cheeks, making him blush despite the snow they stood in, before Natalie dropped Tom’s arm and jumped forward, pulling Quinn away from her own boyfriend, remembering what she had wanted to do earlier.

“Quinn, look at this!” she insisted, running a hand over the poinsettias that had magically appeared on her dress and then grabbing Quinn’s hand to do the same. “Feel them!”

“They look real!” Quinn observed in astonishment, dexterously running her fingers over the poinsettias embedded within the dress. “What did you do?”

“Drank a lot of  _ Ebulliosus _ ,” answered Natalie, to the chortles of laughter from Rosier and Nott. 

“We all have,” giggled Savanna, her attention, and everyone else’s, quickly drawn back to the snow dragon fight by her boyfriend excitedly calling her name.

“Savanna! Savanna!” shouted Adolphus Lestrange. “Look what I can make mine do!” and he flicked his wand at the conjured snow dragon that towered over him. The creature shivered, reflecting under the gray clouds like blue ice covering a frozen lake, before opening its maw the size of a man and letting loose a stream of icy crystals. Lestrange’s dragon directed them at Dawson’s dragon, which shuddered and coiled under the assault of ice pellets.

“No fair!” Dawson yelled over the shrieking of the wind, which had quickly grown more ferocious. The snow became thicker, no longer the picturesque little flakes that stuck on eyelashes. It darkened the scene for those on the porch, Savanna and Pamela made disappointed noises while Quinn still inspected Natalie’s dress. Though Natalie’s attention had moved to the fight taking place on the front lawn.

Dawson’s dragon roared and shrieked as he held it together with his wand under the attack from Lestrange. The snow and ice that it consisted of rippled and twisted as his magic worked to weave it back together from Lestrange’s ice bolts. The snow beast reared back and spread its enormous wings, battering the heavy snow with the same intensity as the wind itself. It sent a blast of cold air and snow down towards those watching, making everyone duck. Quinn, not paying attention to the fight, was thrown off balance and slipped, gripping onto Natalie’s dress to steady herself. 

Natalie yelped as Quinn nearly dragged her downwards — Tom managing to pull her away from Bulstrode as Rosier grabbed his girlfriend before she could fall to the ground. 

“Pay attention, Quinn!” scolded Pamela, herself hiding behind Nott as the dragon blasted them with wind.

“I was!” Bulstrode snapped back, only causing Selwyn to scoff in disbelief.

“Both of you be quiet!” hissed Savanna Rowle, her glazed eyes remained on Lestrange. She smiled as he waved at her and took a dramatic bow. “Isn’t he bloody brilliant?”

“Sure,” replied Dent, the first word he’d spoken since following them outside. He stood behind the others, as close to the wall of the Manor as he could get. His pale eyes observing everyone and everything until he glanced over at Natalie. She raised an eyebrow at him, making him spit out what he was thinking. “But I’ve a feeling this could go very wrong,” 

“Your feeling would not be incorrect,” replied Lord Voldemort in a cold voice, Dent threw a nervous look at him, his eyes then running over the arm still wrapped around Natalie. He nodded to himself, as if satisfied Tom Riddle could keep his Seeker safe.

“Look!” squealed Willow Avery, drawing all eyes to her, as none of them had heard her speak that night. The young witch had become captivated by the snow dragon fight, she hung onto the handrail of the porch and gazed down at the conjured dragons in awe. Lloyd hovered right behind his younger sister. They all followed her pointing finger to watch Dawson figure out how to make his dragon breathe snow or ice or whatever it was Lestrange had just done.

Dawson’s dragon arched its long neck and dropped its jaw open. Pamela Selwyn made a noise of admiration for the detail that went into the conjuration of the snow dragon. Its mouth was full of sharpened pieces of ice, ranging from the size of a man’s hand to the size of a golden Galleon, serving as glittering teeth for the creature. They were ordered symmetrically, the largest towards the front, and tapering off as they ran back towards the dragon’s white throat. 

“Adolphus’s looks better,” said Savanna, picking up on Pamela’s commendation. “His has scales made of ice. Eric’s only has teeth made of ice, the rest is just snow.”

“Yes,  _ just  _ snow,” repeated Nott with a considerable degree of sarcasm as this time Bulstrode complimented the detail that went into the conjuration of Dawson’s dragon.

“Adolphus’s is better,” Savanna stubbornly defended her boyfriend as Dawson’s dragon released a torrent of ice upon Lestrange’s. “Watch.”

Lestrange flicked his wand up at his dragon and it let out a roar. Shattering the air like thunder, it seemed to shake the Manor itself. Those watching collectively bent or reached out to grab something to steady themselves. Savanna and Willow giggled at this. The snow and wind had grown so thick, only the hulking outlines of the snow dragons could be seen. They watched as Lestrange’s dragon charged towards Dawson’s with a deafening howl.

Natalie, overcome with a sudden prickly feeling, leaned around Tom Riddle to give Dent a look. He met her eyes with a grim smile.

“Yeah, I think you’re gonna be right,” she announced. The instant the last word left her mouth, a resounding boom rattled across the front lawn as the dragons collided in an explosion of enchanted ice and snow. A shockwave seemed to roll off the collision with the intensity of an earthquake — making Bulstrode and Rosier fall into each other as Selwyn and Nott slipped to the ground. Savanna and Willow threw themselves onto the railing, frantically clinging to the slippery wood as Lloyd dropped to his knees, covering his head with his arms. Tom pulled Natalie against the side of the manor that Dent squeezed himself against. 

Some instinct within Natalie told her to fling a hand up as both her boyfriend and her captain gripped her as if she would fly away. It was not a moment too late, as after the initial shockwave, a blast of freezing air blew out from the dragons. The front lawn was a white haze as the wind screamed outwards; the magic holding the dragons together snapped like an icicle that had become too heavy. Natalie vaguely heard a warning shout from the two wizards down on the lawn before snow and ice shot out towards the audience, pelting them with the ice they had been admiring moments ago.

Whatever her hand had done when she flung it out prevented the sharp ice and snow from hitting her, Tom, or Dent. But once the onslaught of snow, ice, and wind died away, she quickly realized the shield magic she had used did not extend beyond them.

A scream shattered the air with the same velocity as the snow and ice. Willow Avery fell from the railing she had desperately clung onto and dropped to the ground beside her brother, who had been huddled on the ground himself. Natalie lowered her hand as a plethora of curse words came from around those who had been watching a dragon fight only minutes ago as they took in the situation. 

“Willow? Willow!” yelped Avery, climbing to his knees and leaning over his sister with concern. She lay motionless, eyes closed and face pale as blood spurted out of a large gash on her forehead — it melted into the accumulated snow around her, turning it a gory scarlet. The perpetrator, a large piece of ice that had served as a tooth for one of the dragons, lay nearby. Red blood stained the blunt end of it.

“Oh my Merlin!” shrieked Savanna, who had been right beside Willow during the sudden storm of ice and managed to have much better luck. She dropped to her knees on Willow’s other side and surveyed the wound. “Willow? Willow, are you alright?”

Nott and Rosier scrambled over to observe, leaving Selwyn to comfort Bulstrode, who had turned pasty white at the sight of all the blood and looked ready to vomit. 

“She got knocked out,” said Nott, wincing at the piece of ice that had just been one of the teeth they had been admiring. “Cut bad too.”

Bulstrode moaned, “I’m gonna be sick,” and flung herself at the railing, leaning over it to unleash the contents of her stomach to the snow below. Selwyn made a disgusted sound, but pulled Quinn’s hair away from her face anyway.

“I’m going to kill them,” Avery announced with a brutality none of them had ever heard. And he stood up with what could only be described as murder on his face. “One of you take her inside to my parents.”

“Um. . .” mumbled Dent as Natalie’s jaw dropped from the sudden change in energy coming from Avery, who was usually their quiet, passive follower. She even felt Tom grow unnerved beside her when Avery drew his wand and stepped around the unconscious body of his sister.

“Lloyd, mate,” Rosier jumped in front of Avery, blocking his path and speaking with as rational of a voice he could muster. “C’mon, let’s all get her inside and we can-”

Avery didn’t even look at Rosier. Instead he pushed past him, giving him a good shove on the shoulder that sent him stumbling into Nott, who managed to steady him. 

“He’s going to kill Adolphus,” whispered Savanna, eyes wide in terror. She still kneeled in the snow on the porch, frozen in shock and fear. “And maybe Eric too-”

“Zack,” Lord Voldemort cleared his throat to take control of the situation as Avery disappeared off the porch and into the snow and wind that was no longer magical, but nearing blizzard proportions nonetheless. “Take her inside.”

“Right,” Nott moved around a shocked Rosier. He leaned down and gently scooped up the unconscious, bloodied figure of Willow Avery. The girl’s skin was growing paler by the moment as blood continued to flow out of the head wound.

“We’ll help,” volunteered Pamela Selwyn, to Bulstrode’s displeasure. Quinn had stopped vomiting but looked nauseous at the sight of the bloodied girl. She grudgingly followed Pamela’s lead and the two hastily moved to clear the piles of snow from Nott’s path and open the doors leading inside.

“Evan, go with them and take Savanna. Try to avoid a scene,” Voldemort ordered. Rosier gave himself a little shake and moved to obey.

Savanna rose to her feet, whipping her blonde hair over her shoulder and straightening her long mint green dress. She gave Tom Riddle a stubborn look. “No, Lloyd could kill Adolphus! I’m going after him,” and she stepped forward to pursue Avery.

Natalie felt Tom’s fingers tighten in their grip on her waist as his anger blossomed from Savanna’s impetuousness. Rosier flashed a look at Lord Voldemort, sensing his anger as well. He stepped in front of Savanna, not willing to be bowled over by a second person that day. Rosier held a hand towards Savanna and gave her a pleading look.

“C’mon, Savanna, they can handle it fine.”

“You’ll only be in the way,” Dent spoke up with the seriousness that came with being the captain of the national Quidditch team. It was this that made Savanna pause. She glanced at Dent, then at Natalie, who gave her a sharp look. Shuddering, she finally met Lord Voldemort’s eyes and dropped her gaze to the ground and then her hand into Rosier’s after only a few seconds.

Rosier led her inside and Lord Voldemort finally moved. Pushing Natalie towards Dent, he stalked off after Avery, just as a shout could be heard over the wind and snow. Dent grabbed Natalie by the arm and pulled her towards him as she made to follow Tom.

“Let go of me,” she grunted, trying to wiggle away from him. “I gotta help.”

Dent snatched hold of her other arm and made his grip vice-like, holding her steady right in front of him. “If he wanted you to help don’t you think he would have taken you with him and not handed you off to me?”

“Shut up,” she snapped. “Let go of me!”

He continued as if he didn’t hear her demands or feel her struggling. “I mean, it’s obvious the bloke doesn’t like me at all, so leaving you with me means he really doesn't want you to follow. Where do you even nab a boyfriend like that?”

“School,” she hissed, putting her focus into wriggling out of his grasp. She wasn’t willing to try any of her magic tricks on the captain. They couldn’t afford an injury to either of them — they had a match coming up shortly, and the weather was dangerous enough already.

But she also very much wanted to go down and see what was happening on the lawn. Craning her neck while still trying to escape Dent’s grasp, she squinted across the grounds. It was useless. The snow had turned to white-out conditions; the wind flung her curls all around, forcing her to bring her eyes almost to a close. She managed to pick up on shouting and what sounded like curses being tossed around.

Natalie whipped her head back around to stare up at Dent. She became absorbed in observing his height. He was taller than her, tall enough to be accurately described as tall, but not as tall as Tom Riddle. A devious plan popped into her head based on her precise calculations of just how tall Dent was. The second she knew it would succeed, she was moving to execute it. 

Using his grip on her wrists and hands, she yanked him towards her so she ended up pinned against his chest. She felt his muscles freeze from the contact and watched his pupils blow wide (as well as noting for the first time that he also had a slight glaze over his eyes from the  _ Ebulliosus _ , so she would have to tease him about breaking his own “no drinking” rule at some point after this). 

She leaned up onto her tiptoes, remembering that she was still barefoot for the first time since coming outside into the snowstorm, and pressed her lips on his in a sudden, aggressive kiss, going so far as to sneak her tongue out and run it over his lips.

It had the same result as if she had cast a charm. His hands unclenched their grip on her in his astonishment and she freely stepped back, now unhindered to run after whatever was occurring between Avery, Lestrange, Dawson, and Lord Voldemort.

Before she could turn away from Dent, she felt another hand on her shoulder. It spun her around with a violent force and she found herself staring at Lord Voldemort himself. She was barely aware of Lestrange and Dawson behind him, both with streaks of blood on their face and in their hair, and a satisfied-looking Avery, who stepped into the Manor to find his sister.

The look on Voldemort’s face made her own blood run as cold as the weather had become. 

“What,” he began in a dangerously slow voice, “are you doing?”


	21. December 1945: Another Party Ruined

“Bring her to the study,” Pamela Selwyn suggested as she and Quinn Bulstrode staggered into the hallway ahead of Zacharias Nott, carrying the unconscious Willow Avery.

“Why is it bloody dark in here?” muttered Bulstrode as she wiped her mouth for the umpteeth time since vomiting.

“Because there’s no light,” snapped Pamela and she pulled out her wand to cast a quick  _ Lumos. _ “Go clean yourself up, Quinn. I’ll find the Averys. Zack, do you-”

“Yeah, I know where the study is,” he muttered, already heading in that direction. Quinn followed, her destination the nearest lavatory.

“Right,” mumbled Pamela, and she took off at a near sprint towards the door to the party. She let out a yelp as she neared, stumbling over what looked like a portrait frame lying face down on the floor. Glancing up at the wall it would have hung on, then back down at the fallen frame, she shook her head in bewilderment and stepped over it. It wasn’t her problem.

When she entered the party room, the atmosphere was as they had left it. Stuffy, loud, and fragrant with  _ Ebulliosus.  _ She spotted Duncan and Terese Avery speaking with Tiberius Malfoy, her boss, as well as Duncan’s sister, Fabienne, and her husband, Rabastan Lestrange. The group clustered near the piano where Melania Malfoy still played soft Christmas carols. 

Pamela took a deep breath, trying to calm her frayed nerves so as to not attract too much attention. The night had started off so fun. . . . She knew she couldn’t make too much of a scene, else it would ruin the party. She kept her head down as she picked her way through the room, ducking to avoid any attention and speeding up when she heard someone call her name.

She finally shuffled to a halt in front of the group of the Averys, the Lestranges, and the Minister of Magic, almost out of breath from not breathing as she crossed the room.

“Ah, Pamela,” the Minister greeted her with a warm smile before a crease crossed his brow, reading the expression she’d been struggling to hide. “Everything alright, dear?”

“Er, not exactly,” she winced, wishing Zack had come along with her. “There’s been, uh, an accident.” She looked over at Duncan and Terese Avery and mumbled, “Willow got hurt -- we were all outside, fooling around really, and the storm got bad and there was magic involved-”

Duncan Avery cut her off with a wave of his hand, focusing on her first three words. Concern cut through the glaze that was in all their eyes. “Where’s my daughter?”

“Zack took her to the study-”

“Nott?” demanded Duncan, and he dropped his glass onto a tray held by a house-elf. All traces of merriment vanishing. Terese Avery grew pale, clutching a hand to her heart.

“Is my baby alright? What happened?”

“Er, we don’t know Mrs. Avery but I’m sure she’ll be alright -- and yes, Zack Nott-”

Tiberius Malfoy stepped into action with the smooth display of power she admired so much. The wizard knew how to take charge of any situation.

“Pamela, take the Averys to her. Fabienne, you ought to go as well, you’re a Healer. Rabastan. . . I’ve a feeling we should keep this quiet.”

Pamela nodded her understanding, beckoning the Averys and Fabienne Lestrange after her and leaving the other wizards by themselves.

“Everything alright, father?” Abraxas Malfoy popped up beside Tiberius and Rabastan, as the head of  _ The Daily Prophet  _ muttered his agreement on keeping whatever had occurred quiet. Antonin Dolohov stood behind Abraxas, a curious look on his sharp face.

“There’s likely been an incident, and I’ve a feeling your cousin is involved in some manner,” Tiberius explained in a low voice. He glanced around the room, noting the status of the party-goers, then met the eyes of his son and assistant. “If you two would like to help, consider making sure nobody needs to leave this room until we sort out whatever’s happened.”

The pair nodded their understanding, knowing it was an order rather than a suggestion, turning tail and moving off into the room like two vigilant guard dogs.

Tiberius and Rabastan locked eyes and the two friends exchanged a grim smile before following the Averys out of the room.

“I’ve a feeling my son is also involved in this,” said Rabastan once they stepped out into the hall.

“I’ve a feeling the lot of them are involved-” began Tiberius, pausing once he noticed what was off about the hallway. It was pitch black; all the decorative candles Melania had spent so much time crafting were extinguished. “What in Merlin’s name --  _ Lumos! _ ” he cast the spell and flicked his wand, sending a sphere of light hovering near the high ceiling of the hallway, illuminating the length of it.

“What in Merlin’s name  _ happened _ ?” he repeated upon seeing the portrait frame facedown on the floor. Stepping forward, he knew immediately it was his sister’s portrait. 

“Is that Theia?” inquired Rabastan, solemnly following Tiberius to stand before the frame. The Minister reached down to pick it up, brushing it off and propping it up against the wall to observe the front side. 

They each let out a gasp. Jagged black lines spiraled out from the center of the oil painting, reaching each corner of the frame -- it was burnt to a crisp, as though someone had cast a violent curse at it, leaving the magical painting of Theia Malfoy completely destroyed. 

“Natalie,” Tiberius uttered his niece’s name with an emotion somewhere between worry and anger. He realized he had not seen her -- or any of her friend group -- at the party for some time now.

“You think she did this?” Rabastan asked in astonishment. He stared at the ruined portrait with something like melancholy. He had been in Theia’s year at Hogwarts and the two had even been Potions partners their fifth year, the year he had fancied her immensely. “Her own mother?”

“Who else would have any reason to?” Tiberius sighed, shaking his head. “But nevermind that, let’s find the Averys and their daughter.”

The two continued down the hall, past the staircase and to the study used by the family to conduct business affairs. They stepped in, and Tiberius made sure to close the door behind them. He surveyed the scene with a keen gaze. The rattling window panes caught his eye first; they trembled as the wind pounded away outside, a white blur all that could be seen of the storm. A drastic change from the soft snowfall that had fallen at the start of the party. Finally looking at the occupants of the room, Tiberius noted those present. An unconscious Willow Avery was laid out on the couch nearest the fireplace (he was pleased someone had the decency to start a fire). Terese Avery was kneeling on the floor holding her daughter’s hand and sobbing. Duncan Avery stood behind the couch, anxiously watching Fabienne Lestrange poke and prod at a bloody wound marring the girl’s forehead. Pamela Selwyn and Zacharias Nott stood to the side, shifting uncomfortably as they watched the scene.

Tiberius approached these last two and addressed Nott. “What happened?” 

“She got hit by a piece of ice,” Nott looked relieved to finally explain, clearly not having told the Averys this story yet. “We were all outside-”

“Who are ‘we all’?” interjected Rabastan, pointing between Selwyn and Nott. “Your usual group? My son and Seamus Dawson’s son?”

Zack nodded, “and Evan Rosier, Quinn Bulstrode, Savanna Rowle-”

“And my niece and her boyfriend, no doubt,” said Tiberius, and Nott nodded his head in affirmation again.

“Lloyd Avery and Eugene Dent were there too-”

“Dent too? That’s interesting. But how did Willow end up like this?” Tiberius cut to the point, gesturing over at the unconscious Willow Avery.

“She got hit by a piece of ice,” repeated Nott with a wince. “A few of us were, er, fooling around with the snow and enchanting it. Um, Adolphus and Eric had conjured up dragons and had them fight. It was bloody impressive, to be honest. But things, er, got out of hand and they lost control-”

Tiberius made a humming sound, keeping his expression blank. He had a funny feeling, one that sliced through the charm of the  _ Ebulliosus  _ he had consumed, like an itch in the back of his throat that he needed to take care of before anything else. “I’m assuming things ‘got out of hand’ shortly after my niece showed up?”

“Um,” Nott blinked, clearly not having made that connection. “Well, the storm grew much worse around when she came out-”

He paused as the study door creaked open. Evan Rosier and Savanna Rowle cautiously stepped in. They glanced around the room, observing those present. Savanna covered her mouth with a hand upon sighting Willow on the couch.

“It’s merely blood loss and head trauma,” announced Fabienne before anyone could mention the new arrivals. She muttered another spell to finish stitching up the wound on Willow’s head. “Looks worse than it is. Tiberius, she could use a blood replenishing potion after I wake her up, if you’ve got one on hand.”

“Of course,” Tiberius turned back to Nott and Selwyn. “You two run and find my son. Tell him we need a blood-replenishing potion. Avoid attracting unnecessary attention.”

“Yes, sir,” Nott ducked his head and he and Pamela darted out of the room. 

“We’ll, er, go help,” offered Rosier, and he and Rowle followed them out. 

Seconds after they departed, the door burst open again and in rushed Lloyd Avery. He flew over to the couch where his sister lay and sank to his knees beside his mother.

“Will she be alright?” he demanded.

“Yes, she’ll be fine,” Duncan Avery assured his son, though giving him a suspicious look. “Where have you been?”

“I, er, had to get them back for it.”

“Get who back?”

“Adolphus and Eric,” Lloyd grunted. “They bloody lost control of their magic and that’s what caused this.”

“My son caused this?” snapped Fabienne, in the middle of murmuring a spell to awaken Willow. “Adolphus caused this?”

“Fabi, finish the spell,” urged Rabastan, though he turned to Lloyd. “Adolphus was involved?”

“Yes,” answered Lloyd with a duck of his head. “He’s fine though-”

Understanding immediately what was meant, Rabastan fired off the question. “Did you duel?” 

“For a few minutes,” Lloyd admitted, his usual mellow demeanor coming back as his sister’s eyes started to flutter open from Fabienne’s spells. “Er, Tom Riddle stopped us before things, er, got out of hand.”

At this, Tiberius glanced around the room and noticed what was missing. Or who. “Where are they?”

“Outside still, I reckon,” said Lloyd, and as if to criticize his words, a sharp gust of wind made the windows of the study shudder and creak. The Manor itself seemed to shake from the storm’s rage with an underworldly groan. It made them all pause, even the fireplace flickered wildly for a moment as a whooshing sensation seemed to rush from one side of the room to the other. 

Tiberius shared a glance with Rabastan before the latter snorted, turning back to Lloyd. “You decided to go outside in weather like this?”

“It wasn’t this bad earlier,” Lloyd meekly said, looking from Rabastan to Tiberius and back again. “I swear. We wouldn’t have gone out if it was as bad as it is now.”

“And the lot of them are probably all drunk out of their minds too,” Duncan Avery jumped into the conversation, finally tearing his eyes away from his daughter for the first time since stepping foot in the room. 

Tiberius’s face hardened, recalling the glazes about the entire friend group when he had gone upstairs to see what was taking Natalie so long. The Minister of Magic was quite certain a number of wizarding laws had been broken concerning the amount of  _ Ebulliosus _ consumed by the group alone. Merlin, he had even had to skirt around some statutes himself just to have his elves purchase more for the party.

“Unfortunately, I believe you are right, Duncan,” said Rabastan with a sigh.

At this, Fabienne glanced up from attending Willow, a concerned look on her face. “Did Willow drink any  _ Ebulliosus _ tonight?”

Lloyd hesitated, making his mother snap her head over at him. “Lloyd-”

“She did,” he said hastily. “I told her not to but she asked Alphard Black to sneak her some-”

“That boy!” exclaimed Terese Avery, now incensed. “He’s going to bring shame upon the Black family, mark my words!”

Fabienne groaned, “that’s going to complicate the healing process for her. Might make her head injury more tricky to deal with.” She shot a look at Tiberius, “which is part of the reason why  _ Ebulliosus _ is so regulated. . . .”

Tiberius held up a hand to calm everyone. “I cannot imagine Willow drank very much of it. And I know Fabienne here will do everything she can to ensure her niece’s safety.”

Fabienne Lestrange muttered under her breath before turning her attention back to Willow Avery.

“I’m going to have a word with Irma Black,” announced Terese Avery, still upset about the situation. “She needs to get her children in line! Cygnus made a respectable marriage to Druella Rosier but Alphard’s becoming a menace, and Cassiopeia is seeing that Lament boy-”

“The Laments are a respectable family,” said Tiberius, still trying to sooth the situation. “They weren’t included in the Pure-blood Directory because of a small oversight by Cantankerus Nott, surely you’re aware-”

The door opening interrupted him. Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson entered the room, looking rather guilty. The blood on their faces and the ruffled condition of their robes and hair did not go unnoticed.

“Adolphus!” shrieked Fabienne Lestrange. Her calm Healer’s demeanor vanished upon seeing the blood of her own son. She jumped to her feet beside Willow Avery, who had just opened her eyes. The girl flinched from the sudden noise and movement, covering her face with her hands and curling into a ball.

“Good God, Fabi, calm yourself!” snapped her brother, Duncan, as Terese Avery let out a cry and practically threw herself over her daughter. Lloyd jumped to his feet upon seeing the two, adopting a defensive posture over his sister and mother.

Adolphus and Eric raised their hands in a pleading gesture.

“Everyone relax,” said Adolphus, revealing a small glass bottle in his hand. “Abraxas told us to bring this. It’s the blood-replenishing potion.”

“Why are you bleeding?” demanded his mother, while Rabastan moved to take the potion from his son, giving him a sharp look before handing the potion over to Lloyd.

“Give this to your sister,” Rabastan told his youngest employee, preferring to avoid another duel between the recent Hogwarts graduates. Rabastan, Tiberius Malfoy, Seamus Dawson, and Duncan Avery all knew their sons and their particular group of friends were not unskilled at the art of dueling.

Lloyd removed the stopper of the glass bottle and knelt beside the couch while his father attempted to peel his mother away from Willow. Fabienne Lestrange marched across the room and grabbed her son by the neck of his robes, pulling him close and inspecting the blood. Breathing a sigh of relief upon realizing he and Eric only had minor cuts and scrapes, she turned her wand on the two best friends next, quickly healing them.

As they murmured their thanks to Fabienne, Tiberius approached, a question burning in his mind.

“Why didn’t Abraxas bring the potion himself?”

Adolphus grimaced, as if he knew Tiberius was not going to be pleased. “Er, he started dismissing the guests. He has Antonin, Evan, and Zack helping too-”

“And why is he dismissing the guests?” Tiberius’s voice quickly turned cold. Things were continuing to get out of hand. Hadn’t he told his son to make sure nobody left the room? “And  _ where  _ is my niece?”

Eric Dawson dropped his eyes to the floor, letting Adolphus handle the questions. Adolphus scratched the back of his neck and winced. 

“Well, er, her and Lor- uh, Tom, ended up getting into a bit of an. . . argument. . . and you know how she gets with all-” Adolphus paused to make several dramatic hand gestures. “I guess all the house-elves started going bloody insane. And a lot of glass broke in the party-”

“Bloody fuck,” Tiberius let loose a rare swear before moving past the two. He’d heard enough. He needed to see the damage for himself. He barely made it out of the study before he nearly walked right into an annoyed Seamus Dawson.

“Have you seen my son?” snapped Seamus, “I know he and his friends have been causing shenanigans all night-”

“That would be correct,” replied Tiberius, “have you seen  _ my _ son?”

“Yes, he just politely asked a very inebriated Horace Slughorn to leave,” snorted Seamus, mood switching in an instant. “Almost as funny as when Horace’s glass exploded in his hands.”

“Lovely,” remarked Tiberius before he stepped past the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation and hurried down the hall. Ignoring the burned portrait of his sister, he stepped into the main party room to find it already nearly empty. Only his mother, along with Abraxas and Melania, and Antonin Dolohov, remained in what had been a full room moments ago. He just caught a glimpse of Evan Rosier and Zacharias Nott disapparating with Pamela Selwyn and Quinn Bulstrode. 

He understood why it had been so easy to clear out the room. Broken glass was everywhere. It covered the floor like glittery snow, the remains of  _ Ebulliosus _ or whatever else someone had been drinking sprinkled over it all like a sticky dew. The room had a feeling as though a storm had just blown through. It looked no better. Tables were overturned, a few of the decorative Christmas trees had fallen over, there were pieces of the shrimp and various dipping sauces that had been another staple of the night everywhere. The house-elves were nowhere to be found. 

“Abraxas!” he called out, hurrying over to his son. Melania had his hands in hers, running her wand over the bloody cuts that sliced through his palms and murmuring healing spells. “What happened?”

“Your sister married a Muggle is what happened!” Domitia barked at her son, making Tiberius freeze, the image of the blackened portrait of Theia floating back to the front of his mind. He knew his mother would not be too pleased about it. “None of us would be standing in glass if Theia had decided she liked Rabastan Lestrange enough to marry him. Instead she ran off and spawned a witch with that Muggle’s temper!”

Domitia had nothing else to say. She whipped out her wand and cleared away the glass and debris in a neat path from where she stood to the door. And she marched on out, leaving the others alone.

Tiberius looked back at his son. Abraxas sighed, nodding his head at the destroyed room. 

“This just. . . happened. Everyone started panicking and disapparating immediately.”

“Anyone who didn’t leave then, we helped to do so as soon as possible,” added Dolohov, looking grave. “Which was a lot -- everyone was insanely drunk-”

“Which means this hopefully won’t be remembered by most,” announced Abraxas, as Melania finished healing his hands. He gently took her by the shoulders and placed a kiss on her forehead, making her giggle in spite of the situation.

“Yes, hopefully,” sighed Tiberius, running a hand across his forehead. “But where the bloody hell is your cousin?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The entrance hall to the mansion deep in the Irish countryside would need dire repairs by tomorrow. The front doors had long been blown off their hinges. The hardwood floor was splintered and blackened as if by fire. The other doors off the hallway had copied the example of the front doors. They lay scattered throughout the hall, in various pieces. The elegant chandelier lay in glass shards all over the floor, joining the sharp wooden splinters, and the glass of the windows that had been the first things to blow out. The sweeping staircase leading upstairs had collapsed inwards, blocking entry to the upper floors. Its coiling bannister was now a minefield of wooden spikes. 

Natalie Malfoy stood at the center of it all, raging at an equally furious looking Lord Voldemort, who stood mere paces from her.

“ARE YOU. . . ARE YOU SERIOUS? YOU FLIRT WITH WITCHES FOR YOUR STUPID LITTLE JOB ALL THE TIME BUT I KISS MY CAPTAIN TO  _ GET AWAY FROM HIM _ AND YOU GET ALL WHINY? YOU WERE THE ONE WHO LEFT ME THERE WITH HIM!”

“You didn’t have to  _ kiss  _ him. You had a thousand alternative ways to get away from him. And you chose that one. You _ know  _ he desires you. And you played to that weakness, to  _ deliberately  _ upset me-”

“IF THIS IS GOING TO BE ABOUT YOU LET’S MAKE IT ABOUT YOU! YOU’RE THE ONE WHO LEFT ME THERE! I WAS PERFECTLY CAPABLE OF COMING ALONG BUT NO, NO, YOU WANTED TO DO EVERYTHING BY YOURSELF-”

“You’re acting ridiculous-”

“I’M ACTING RIDICULOUS? I’M THE ONE ACTING RIDICULOUS-”

“You were already upset about your mother-”

“AND YOU’RE THE ONE JEALOUS OF A QUIDDITCH CAPTAIN! SERIOUSLY,  _ TOM?” _

_ “ _ I am not  _ jealous  _ of that fool!”

“Yes, you are. I can tell. I can fucking tell. You can’t fucking lie-”

“This does not change the fact that you deliberately kissed him to anger me-”

“NO I DIDN’T!”

“I SAW YOU-”

“Yes, I KISSED him, but not to ANGER YOU -- YOU- YOU JUST CAN’T ADMIT TO YOURSELF YOU’RE JEALOUS OF HIM SO YOU THINK I DID IT TO ANGER YOU -- I WAS TRYING TO GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

“Then curse him. Punch him, even, as you’re fond of doing. Did no other alternative sit well with you? So you went straight for the one to offend me the most?”

Natalie had to pause to take a breath and stomp her foot with rage. When her heel impacted the floor, the wood turned black and crispy. She barely noticed. Their argument was absurd. She could hardly follow it over her raging anger, and she had the feeling Tom couldn’t either. All she knew was that she was furious. And she was drunk. And she was furious. And she was drunk. But she was  _ furious. _

“Again,” she growled, “you flirt with witches for your job all the time. I don’t see why you’re so upset about my manipulating his feelings for me to my own benefit. That’s what  _ you  _ do to people, isn’t it,  _ Lord Voldemort. _ ”

“My reasons are logical. Yours are absurd. All you had to do was stay there, but yet you had to indulge in his fantasies for you-”

“His fantasies for me,” Natalie scoffed, crossing her arms and trying to control how much she was shaking. The waves of  _ Ebulliosus  _ had turned into a whirlpool that seemed to be sucking her and everything around her down into its depths. “Now you’re really acting ridiculous-”

“I’ve seen them!” snapped Lord Voldemort. He glowered at her with a ferocity that made her drop her arms and sneer back at him. He watched her quiver for a few moments, himself broiling in the energy radiating off her. He was wildly aflame with it. Everything around them seemed to be shades of black, gray, and purple. He inhaled thunder and spit out brimstone. “Did you really think I wouldn’t use the opportunity of meeting him to not delve into his mind?”

“Glad to know you respect his privacy.”

“Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not defending him, I’m attacking you!”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t done the same to him.”

“So what if I have?”

“Are you on the team to play Quidditch or toy with the captain?”

“Don’t!” hissed Natalie, taking a step towards him. The floor continued to blacken and crack under her feet, shooting out like fault lines cutting through the earth. “Don’t fucking make this about Quidditch.”

“You make everything about Quidditch. I can’t?”

“That -- really? That's the same logic I used about you flirting with witches for your job! Maybe you should pick a method of arguing!”

“Maybe you should focus on playing Quidditch instead of Dent’s fantasies about you-”

“Shut up!” yelled Natalie, she was only a few hand-lengths away from him by now. She could read every boiling emotion within his eyes; they were black, never ending, and spiraling just as intensely as herself. She could not see anything else in the room. “You’ve just never liked me playing Quidditch!”

His glare hardened. “That’s correct. Because you always do something stupid-”

“Stupid? Stupid? Do you know how much money I make? Do you know how much money I’m  _ worth _ ?”

“Quidditch has repeatedly gotten you into sticky situations and it will continue to do so-”

“So, what, should I quit? In the middle of a Cup run-”

“It wouldn’t be the worst idea you’ve had-”

She couldn’t stand it. The tempest in her roared upwards and she reached out in sync with it. A rumbling seemed to swell within her, rising and rising until it leapt out of her -- no, wait, the rumbling wasn’t within her. It was outside of her. But that didn’t make any sense-

Lord Voldemort watched her lunge towards him. He watched her pause and glance upward. He followed her gaze and his anger dropped onto a completely different conduit. And then her lunge became not one of expressed furor, but one of fearful desperation. He felt himself jump forward to meet her -- but his grasp met dust and plaster as the ceiling collapsed on top of Natalie, sending her crashing downwards. 


	22. December 1945: Next Mess, Next Match

“I’m her bloody agent, Riddle. I think I ought to be the one deciding things here. Not someone who spends his time gallivanting around the continent after whatever trinket has caught Burke’s stingy eye this time.”

The voices were low murmurs. Fuzzy and distant, but they grew closer. Their familiar timbres slowly identified themselves.

“You weren’t here, Crockett. You didn’t see-”

“She looks fine. There’s not a scratch on her-”

“She’s been unconscious-”

“She’s breathing alright-”

“Thanks to me-”

“Save your opinions, Lestrange. Your mother might be a Healer but you are far from that.”

There was a shuffling sound, and someone let out an annoyed breath. 

“Dent can be without a Seeker for one practice-”

“It’s been forty-eight hours, Riddle. Nobody’s had any word from her. Glad to know you and your little gang have been hiding out here since the Minister’s Christmas party. Any longer and this would have become a Department issue. I’m not exactly inclined to have to tell Matt Lament one of the national team players is  _ missing. _ If word got out there would be a scandal. Did you even let her family know?”

“Yes. And they evidently informed you, else you would not be here.” This voice was the closest. The annoyance within it was palpably rising.

“You’re lucky it’s me here. Dent would have come ready to tear the place down if she didn’t show for practice later today. Not that it looks like it needs any more tearing down. What in Salazar’s name did you lot do to the place?”

“Why do you think she’s unconscious?”

There was a silence. A muffled snicker. Then a soft sigh, “she did this?”

“I’ve told you that multiple times now-”

“I get it, Lestrange. Dawson, you can quit laughing-”

Natalie opened her eyes halfway, so as to not draw attention to herself. The voices continued around her, unaware of her regained consciousness as her senses kicked back in.

The last thing she could distinctly recall was a flash of scarlet within Lord Voldemort’s eyes before everything turned white and then lapsed into blackness. Everything else was a blur. There had been red and green and gold and silver — the Christmas party. Of course. At the Malfoy Manor. Wind and snow. There had been enchanted dragons, tussling about like best mates having a bit of fun but that fun had turned dangerous. There was irritation, morphing into rage like a catching fire. Dry wood was everywhere. She could still feel the embers burning. Overlapping it all was a rhythmic swaying movement.  _ Ebulliosus. _

The world around her seemed soft, downy even. Peeking through her eyelids, she recognized the ceiling. The ceiling she’d enchanted to look like the sky. It was a dull, rain-laden gray at the moment, layers of clouds overlapping to form a thick, heavy blanket that seemed to weigh her down. That meant she was currently lying on her bed in the renovated Irish mansion.

The voices continued. Their cadences rose and fell as emotions fluctuated. She could hear the annoyance, which transformed so easily into fury. There was plenty of stubbornness, a good deal of cynicism, a strained anxiety, a candid degree of harsh logic, and a dogged loyalty within each of them.

The voices faded as she fell to calculating, her eyes closing entirely now. A feeling of impending stress filled her. It chipped away at the back of her mind, ticking in sync with the cold ring she could feel on her chest. Once her attention was drawn to it, the ring hanging around the chain she never took off grew warm. It seemed to melt through her skin, through her breastbone, and drip into her heart. Sending its beats cavorting upwards to intermingle with the ticking in her head. 

Forty-eight hours. She’d been unconscious for two days. That meant. . . it was December twenty-sixth? Or more likely it was the twenty-seventh. When had the Christmas party ended? The very early hours of Christmas morning, or the late hours of Christmas Eve?

A jolt went through her, almost causing her to shoot upwards. December twenty-seventh. . . Quidditch. . . the team. . . . She had a match soon! On New Year’s Eve. The Chinese team was due to arrive on December twenty-seventh, the same day the English team was to resume practicing after a short break for the holiday. If they won this round, the road to the Cup Final was a lot clearer — and quicker. She couldn’t miss practice. Not with this much on the line.

Now, she did shoot out of bed. Scrambling around the blankets someone had placed over her and the pillows nestled around her, as if she had been liable to hurt herself while unconscious. The voices erupted into astonishment as she flew to stand up. She stared at her bare feet, noting that someone had transfigured her dress into a long silver night shift. Suddenly dizzy, she felt herself crumble downwards, a strong arm catching her before she hit the floor.

“Bloody hell!” was exclaimed several times and Natalie blinked, studying the owners of the voices she’d been listening to for a while. 

Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson were goggling down at her. They were dressed in casual robes; Dawson’s caramel hair was ruffled and Lestrange clearly hadn’t bothered shaving in some time, as though they’d been hanging about the house for a few days. Winky Crockett stood near them, looking anxious but relieved upon seeing her awake. He must not have been there for long, his red hair was damp from the rain outside and he still wore his heavy black overcoat with the Malfoy family crest pinned on the left breast, right beside the official logo of the English national team. Tom Riddle had grabbed her before she fell. He’d pulled her back to sit on the edge of the bed and stood over her, one hand on her shoulder. His eyes met hers and she knew he was aware she’d been conscious for some time now.

His eyes also reminded her of the occurrences of the past. . . few days, apparently. A chill ran down her spine as she recalled their. . . argument. Somehow it had ended with herself nearly unconscious and her house in ruins. . . well, actually. . . if they were in her bedroom that meant someone had to have repaired the stairs in order for them all to get upstairs-

The look in his eyes dispelled that train of thought. She knew he’d seen her thinking about it. She blinked, trying to force him from her mind and crack into his. But his eyes grew cold and withdrawn, and she only had luck in removing him from her head.

Not quite certain if they were over their. . . fight, she shrugged out of his grip and pushed past him. Rising to her feet, she ran a hand through her blonde hair. She half expected it to be matted with dust and plaster from the collapse she could hardly remember, but it was smooth and clean, albeit slightly more tangled than she liked. Then she scanned her bare arms and glanced over the silver night shift she now wore. She expected to see bruises and blood. But there were none. He must have cleaned her up. And transfigured her dress. And repaired the house. At least enough to get upstairs. And then called upon Lestrange for help healing her. And of course, Dawson faithfully tagged along.

This somehow infuriated her. Glancing back at him, his eyes remained black and hard. He hadn’t said a word since she’d woken. Just looked at her. As if expecting something. She sure as hell hoped he wasn’t expecting an apology. Or a thank you. Both prospects made her nauseous, which did nothing but enrage her further.

The others had been chatting all the while, which she ignored. Crockett was trying to explain something to her. It sounded like a load of hogwash. She found herself glaring at him. He turned pale under his damp red hair and quickly shut up. Which was what she wanted. Some quiet. She had things to do. She had to get to the Quidditch pitch. She had to practice. 

But she should probably eat something first. If she had actually been unconscious for nearly forty-eight hours. . . she didn’t want to faint on the pitch. That would just drag Dent further into this mess. 

Dent.  _ Dent _ . Shit. She had kissed him to get away from him at the party. And Tom had seen. And that had sparked their whole. . . quarrel. But it had been  _ his _ fault for leaving her there-

“Fuck,” she muttered, pushing past the reaches of the boys who had all tried to get her to sit back down. Now her head hurt. 

She wasn’t sure how she managed to stumble out of the room but she did. The staircase had been repaired, as had most of the hallway leading through the first floor, but the entryway and the front room still looked like a warzone. Looking outside once she had hobbled down the stairs, the columns gracing the front doors were destroyed, nothing but chunks of their white marble remained. A slice of red hot rage flashed through her. So they had sat in her house for forty-eight hours and only cleaned up what was immediately convenient to them?  _ Boys.  _

“Hiram!” she snapped the name of the house-elf, craving a strong cup of tea and whatever food could be whipped up. When there was no  _ crack _ of an elf appearing, she remembered she had freed the elf in a fit of rage a while back.

“Fuck,” she hissed again. But it was just as well. She could hear the others rushing down the stairs to keep up with her. Where was her goddamn wand? He probably had it. But she didn’t feel like facing him. Or asking him for it. She didn't want to ask him for anything right now. In fact, having to look into his eyes again sounded nightmarish.

It was no matter. She didn’t need it. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, blocking out the urgent voices of Lestrange, Dawson, and Crockett. And she disapparated with a pop just as Tom Riddle’s presence loomed. He would know where she went, of course. But she trusted that he’d leave her be. For now.

She apparated into the presence of the second person she least wanted to see at the moment. Eugene Dent was, for some reason, in the kitchens of the Malfoy Manor.

“Oh, look who decided to show her face,” remarked Abraxas. Her cousin sat atop one of the long tables used by the elves to prepare food. A cup of tea in one hand, he twirled his wand in the other. Dent stood nearby, leaning against the table with his arms crossed. An untouched cup of tea at his elbow. 

Pointing his wand at her in an accusing manner, Abraxas asked, “where’ve you been? Running from your problems? And what are you wearing? If you’re going to just turn up like this, at least do it in more appropriate attire. What would grandmother say?”

“Shut up, Abraxas,” Natalie wearily snapped at her cousin, ignoring whatever truth lay in his statements. She briefly met Dent’s eyes and watched him flush all the way to his neck. So he remembered the kiss.  _ Shit. _ It didn’t help that she was in a thin, shimmery night shift.

Dent’s embarrassment at least kept him quiet. Natalie took advantage of it to bark at a house-elf. Jubbal came running over with a cup of tea, followed quickly by Burgwyn, bearing a heaping platter of eggs, buttered toast, and fresh fruit. Natalie was simply relieved they were not shrieking in pain by being around her. Fear she could handle. But their screams drove her mental.

Glancing down at herself, she took a moment to admire the gossamer fabric of the night shift. It flowed over her limbs like liquid mercury but felt like the softest satin. At least Tom had the sense to transfigure her dress into something comfortably stylish. And so very. . .  _ her. _

Damn him.

“Can I borrow your wand?” she asked Abraxas after draining the first cup of tea and having Jubbal refill it. She wanted to change without needing to actually go upstairs. And she wanted to magically send the night shift to one of her closets. At the Manor or her own mansion, it didn’t matter. She wanted to keep it. Tom Riddle be damned.

“No,” said Abraxas, setting his tea down and crossing his arms. “Where’s your wand?”

Natalie mumbled something incomprehensible, unwilling to go into the story. Dent looked like he wanted to vanish into the dark wood of the table he pressed himself against. She didn’t blame him.

“Speak up, dear. Grandmother would be so-”

“He has it!” she said, louder this time, feeling no need to elaborate upon who “he” was. They all knew.

“And where is our dear Mr. Riddle?”

Natalie scowled. Abraxas was intent on driving her mental. “At my house.”

“ _Your_ _house_ ,” he snorted, clearly amused by her choice of words. “Funny how you’re here and not there. No matter, though-” Abraxas raised his wand and waved it in her direction, knowing what she wanted. There was a fuzzy, tingling sensation all around her and the silver night shift morphed into plain, casual black robes.

“No,” whined Natalie, “I wanted-”

“I sent it to your closet upstairs,” Abraxas had foreseen her desire to keep the silky shift. “It did look positively dashing on you. Though not something a witch ought to be seen wearing outside  _ her own house _ .”

Ignoring the jab, Natalie tucked into her second cup of tea and began devouring the food laid out by the elves. Feeling more alive with every bite, she found her eyes drawn to Abraxas, as if some part of him was still speaking to her. Something was different about him. He was sitting on top of a table, for starters. That was something she would do. Not him. He fidgeted, flicking his wand around his fingers, running a hand through his hair. . . not sure if she had missed anything important in the past forty-eight hours, she finally decided to just outright ask him.

“What’s going on with you?”

Abraxas’s face hardened. His usual brotherly mischief vanished without warning. He shot Dent a look but shrugged off whatever concern he had about the Quidditch captain being present. It was clear there was something he wanted to tell her but hadn't wanted to bring up the topic himself. 

“Melania had a miscarriage.”

The toast Natalie had just swallowed got stuck in her throat. She snatched up her cup of tea and took several long gulps. Once she felt capable of talking, she wasn’t quite sure what to say to something like that. She tried to avoid looking at Dent, who now felt even less happy to be there.

“Oh, er, I’m sorry. That’s, um, that’s awful. . . is she okay-”

“Don’t start.” Abraxas dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand. “Melania is fine. Just upset. You’ll still be an aunt someday.”

“Aunt?”

“Would you rather be some level of removed cousin?”

“No.”

“Alright then.”

The kitchen fell into silence. Natalie continued cleaning off the platter of food until the previous conversation topic felt like it had been washed away. After several moments of them watching her eat, she addressed Abraxas, ignoring the captain. “Um, why is Dent here?” 

Abraxas rolled his eyes, which let her know he no longer wished to ruminate on what had happened with his wife. “I let him know we'd heard from you — or, from Riddle, at least — and he came to see if you were in any state to make practice today. Because, as you ought to be aware by now, you have a notorious inability to take care of yourself.”

“The Chinese team arrived about an hour ago,” Dent finally pulled himself together to speak up, jumping in before Natalie could bark something at Abraxas. He checked his watch, now with a facade of composure, though Natalie could feel the nervousness about him. “They should be starting their own practice soon. This is the first time we’re back from the Christmas break we’ve been allotted so-”

“We’re gonna start early, yeah?” Natalie let Jubbal pour her a third cup of tea.

“Precisely,” said Dent, gritting his teeth. “And I would very much like my team. . . back to normal. . . .”

“Are we? Are we back to normal?” asked Natalie, keeping her voice toneless. She hoped his response answered several questions. She very much preferred to avoid having to discuss the fact she had kissed him if possible. Hopefully it could all be washed aside as part of the bacchanalia of that night.

“I- yes, yes, I think so. I hope so.”

There was a glimmer of a question in his reply. A glance into his eyes confirmed it. He hoped for several things. Things which Tom Riddle would be very angry about. But Quidditch took precedence, of course. Natalie could work with that. Quidditch remained her trusted escape route.

“Glad to hear it,” she said, draining her third cup of tea and feeling much better. Her usual Quidditch-related excitement took over. “China versus England in a few days! Should be a good matchup. . . .”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Ian Rowle sighed. At one hundred and five years old, having been Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (or the DMLE, as he’d liked to call it for the past twenty five years) for going on fifty four years now, he, quite frankly, was getting too old for this shit. He should have retired thirty-something years ago. Back when Cassius Malfoy first launched his potions company and offered him a pretty piece of it. But he had refused. He had liked his job too much back then; catching the bad guys and coming home to tell his children extremely watered-down versions of fantastic chases and heinous curses. And he would rather resign than be accused of leaving one of the most respected posts in the wizarding world just to reap the easy profits of Cassius’s business adventure due to some speculation of a family monopoly because he and Cassius Malfoy were first cousins. 

But now Cassius was dead. Had been dead for years, decades, even. And with Cassius, the mindset that had once prevented Ian from jumping ship decades ago. It was the same mindset that made him nudge his own grandson, Zacharias Nott, towards Seamus Dawson’s offices rather than his own for a job after Hogwarts. None of it mattered now. Ian’s own children were grown, married into other respectable pureblood families, had children, and, thank Merlin, had jobs outside the walls of the Ministry. He suspected they had never quite let go of his storytelling. His daughter, Giuliana, had made her own fortune writing a quixotically adventurous novel that had popped up in every bookstore in the wizarding world and sold out faster than it could be restocked. Frederick, his son, was the most widely read columnist for  _ The Daily Prophet.  _ Which was owned by Rabastan Lestrange. Whose son was now engaged to Ian’s granddaughter. Ian wasn’t surprised Frederick received a pay raise and a promotion shortly after the engagement was announced. It seemed there were family monopolies on every desired job in the wizarding world. Cassius Malfoy’s own son was the Minister of Magic. Cassius’s grandson ran the company he had founded all those years ago. . . .

Ian shook his head and focused back on the problem at hand. The China versus England match was the first Quidditch World Cup match held on British soil that would also be widely attended by the public. Played on New Year’s Eve night and so doubling as a New Year’s party, the Department of Magical Sports and Games (or the DMSG; after he shortened his own department he shortened every department) ended up printing double the amount of tickets, so coveted did they become within the wizarding world. 

Except the DMSG had somehow forgotten to inform him they had sold twice the number of predetermined tickets and so attendance was now doubled. Which meant security needed to be doubled. Ian wasn’t even sure he had enough quality Aurors for the job. He still had a slight grudge against Tiberius Malfoy, who had snatched up Antonin Dolohov as his assistant before Ian could make him an offer. He’d have loved to have Dolohov working for him. And Tiberius’s own son, Abraxas, had taken Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson off the market. He’d considered retiring shortly after that, to bemoan his lack of foresight for not taking Cassius’s offer all those years ago. But Seamus Dawson persuaded him to stay on, using the upcoming Quidditch World Cup as an excuse to not have a new transition of leadership within the DMLE. 

The World Cup in which Cassius’s own granddaughter was in the run for. He sighed, again. His blasted cousin was mocking him beyond the grave with all this.

Pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes and hummed to himself. Even his desk chair was getting too uncomfortable. He was retiring the second the World Cup was over. Then he’d leave for his house in the country and actually read the book his daughter wrote so he no longer had to fib about having read it.

“Tell me again,” he demanded. His Head Auror, Reginald Harlowe, stood before his desk. Harlowe was the only reason Ian now knew attendance would be double than what he had planned for.

“Of course, sir. Flavin Rookwood overheard Seymour Mulciber telling Evan Rosier the Department had made double the profit than anticipated because tickets sold so fast, they had to print more. . . .”

Evan Rosier. Another name he wished he had working for him. The good stock got picked up so quickly these days. At least he had gotten Barty Crouch. That wizard had talent and ambition enough to do something with it. Crouch breathed fresh life into the Department. But Ian was old. He couldn’t keep up anymore. He barely knew the faces he passed in the halls. They all looked too young. Far too young.

Harlowe had continued speaking, but Ian hadn’t heard, too caught up in his thoughts. Until his office door banged open and Ian Rowle found himself looking at one of his regrets.

“The Minister sent me,” said Antonin Dolohov with a smooth grace. His black eyes darted all around the office and a cool smile appeared on his face. “He wanted me to personally inform you that you might want to increase security tonight. We’ve sold twice the expected amount of tickets. Turns out the English team is more popular than we knew. . . .”

“We knew alright,” muttered Harlowe; perpetually hot-headed, the Auror was always looking for a fight. 

“What’s that?” Dolohov pretended not to have heard the retort, though the look on his face said otherwise. Harlowe glared, the color of his ears indicating his temper was rising.

Ian kept his face composed. He might desperately wish he had Antonin Dolohov working for himself, but the Minister’s assistant could still be an impertinent little bastard. If Ian had one thing left, it was his hefty reputation refined through over fifty years of dedication to his job. Nobody questioned his word.

“Thank you, Antonin. Give Tiberius my thanks as well, and inform him that Matt Lament must have forgotten to pass the word along to me. . . .”

“Oh, there must have been a mix-up,” said Dolohov with far too much cheeriness. As though he delighted in the muddled mess Ian felt this had all become. “Matt got elected to serve on the ICWQC, he’ll be needing the extra time to. . . look ahead. So Jack Lament is Director of Quidditch Operations now. He’ll be handling most of the affairs of the team.”

Ian couldn’t help but narrow his eyes at this statement. Partly because this was the first he’d heard of this movement. He shot a look at Harlowe. Reginald Harlowe centralized all gossip within the Ministry and reported it back to Ian. Yet Ian’s spiderweb only shrugged. Another Ministry department that was staffed through nepotism, Ian found Dolohov’s statement about Matt Lament to be a bit dodgy. With the unexpected retirement of Alphonsus Everstein, there’d been a vacant spot on the ICWQC, the International Confederation of Wizards Quidditch Committee, for the past few weeks. He hadn’t heard of them selecting someone to fill that spot until now and hadn’t expected them to even bother doing so. But the Head of the British Department of Magical Sports and Games being on the ICWQC gave the British Ministry considerable sway in selecting the location and controlling the marketing of the Quidditch World Cup final. . . .

What Dolohov’s statement really told him was that the DMSG, and, by default, the rest of the Ministry, was now functioning as if the team would be playing in the final for the World Cup. That was an enormous gamble — and the possibility of it happening gave Ian a headache. Security was difficult enough to handle when he was informed last minute that the expected crowd would be twice the size. He did not want to think about what would be required for the World Cup final. With Matt Lament now on the ICWQC, Britain would be expected to supply considerable security measures during the final match.

Ian cleared his throat, keeping his cool. Long ago he had been as hot-headed as Harlowe. He’d learned many lessons that way. The biggest being not being hot-headed enough to follow Cassius Malfoy on one of his wild adventures. “Then please inform Tiberius that Jack Lament must have forgotten to pass the word along to me.”

No further snide remarks up his sleeve, Dolohov dropped his head into a polite bow and left without another comment. Once he was gone, Harlowe closed the door and turned to look at Ian. The Auror was already onto solving this new development.

“We can pull up some of the new kids to help out. It’s a mid-round match. We just need bodies present. Patrolling the perimeter and the tunnels to the dressing rooms. Shouldn’t be any major issues. Coot, Scrimgeour. . . Leach is dying for an opportunity-”

“No,” Ian cut him off upon hearing this name. “Nobby Leach isn’t one for field work. Besides, there’s an element of politics involved, remember that, Reginald. Cassius would have my head if I assign a muggle-born to this.”

Harlowe stared at him. “Cassius?”

Ian sighed, realizing his thoughts had become jumbled together. “Tiberius. But, Cassius, too.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The stadium was mid-sized. Not the enormous proportions used to host the World Cup. They were still a few months, and a few rounds, away from that. But it was no Hogwarts Quidditch pitch either. The stands were vast, wrapping entirely around the pitch. These were nearly full. Anyone who had followed the trajectory of the Cup in the British Isles had fought to obtain tickets. Of course, Ministry connections were helpful in that scuffle. The China versus England matchup was pivotal -- the last one of the year, and deliberately scheduled on the holiday. The winner would have a very happy New Year indeed.

The field itself was located in an entirely unsuspecting moor near the Scotland border. Selected by the Ministry and cloaked in an assortment of protection enchantments, it was also the primary pitch the English team used to practice on. All advantages in their favor, the only thing standing between the English team and victory was a formidable Chinese team.

Tiberius Malfoy, Minister of Magic, arrived just before the match began. He apparated outside the stadium, as several strong enchantments prevented apparation inside it. 

“Minister,” Reginald Harlowe greeted him with a curt nod. The Head Auror stood guarding the main -- and the only one accessible to the public -- entrance. Two young Aurors stood with him, trying their best not to look too fidgety. “Thought you might come in the back. I’ve got Tarold over there with Jameson and Crouch.”

Bertram Tarold was Harlowe’s second in command, and one of the finest Aurors Ian Rowle had groomed during his long tenure as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Tiberius was less familiar with Jameson, but knew Crouch as the brother of his daughter-in-law.

“Any issues?” he asked, knowing he would get an earful from Ian Rowle if there were any. That is, after the Lament brothers got an earful from Rowle. His eyes flicked over the two young Aurors. He believed their names were Coot and Scrimgeour.

“None,” reported Harlowe. “Day’s been sweeter than Helga Hufflepuff herself.”

“Excellent, let’s hope the game lives up to it,” declared Tiberius, as Harlowe muttered an enchantment to allow him entry. He stepped neatly through the glowing green rectangle that appeared in the air and finally set foot in the stadium. The Aurors muttered a farewell and he strolled into the tunnel leading to the stands. He could have slipped around the back and arrived at the Malfoy family box without traversing past the other boxes, but that simply wouldn’t be the proper thing for the Minister to do. This was a networking event, like any other gathering within the wizarding world. There were people to meet and hands to shake. He was very disappointed the Chinese Minister had not made the journey for the match. 

At the lowest level of the audience were throngs of Hogwarts students. Still on break for the holidays and apparently having abandoned their families, the teenagers were falling all over themselves as the match began. Tiberius skirted past this group -- which smelled very strongly of Firewhiskey. He snorted upon the realization that someone must have slipped the students alcohol, and a quick glance confirmed it. Dozens of them were openly drinking. He elected to pretend not to notice, moving past the clamor and approaching the private boxes that had been divvied up and sold for this match.

He first spotted Lucretia and Ignatius Prewett, sitting in a box with a few other redheaded Prewetts. He recognized Lancelot and Edgarton, with Edgarton’s wife, Dalmatia, and their two feisty twin boys. This group chirped him a quick hello, intent on the match, and the shouting of the boys much too loud to induce any further conversation.

Next was Dorea and Charlus Potter, joined by Charlus’s parents, Rebecca and Henry Potter. And another whom, from his messy black hair and lanky posture, Tiberius assumed was Henry’s other son. To his surprise, this group hailed him. He obliged, curiosity mounting, and paused by their box.

“Minister!” exclaimed Henry Potter over the roar that swept through the stadium now that the match had begun. “Wonderful to see you!”

“You as well, Mr. Potter,” said Tiberius with ease. “Enjoying the match, I hope?”

“Oh, certainly, certainly! Fleamont here is a big fan of the sport, played at Hogwarts and all,” Henry Potter nudged the son Tiberius hadn’t recognized. Fleamont Potter clumsily smiled and ran a hair through his mop of dark hair. He couldn’t be much older than Abraxas. “Fleamont’s also got a knack with potions, working on an interesting little project that’ll definitely make a fortune, right, Flea?”

“I’ve just started and all-” mumbled Fleamont, embarrassed by his father’s boasts.

“Potions, is it?” inquired Tiberius, now much more interested. He scanned Fleamont Potter with a scrutinous eye. The boy might be young but he had a determined look about him, hiding under his thatch of jet black hair and awkward aura. “Well, we all know where the best ingredients can be found. . . I do hope you all enjoy the match.” With that, he gave those present in the box a slight bow and continued ascending.

He was approaching the box of Irma and Pollux Black with their brood of children when Antonin Dolohov came rushing down towards him. 

“Minister,” breathed Dolohov, worry creasing his brow. “Your mother-”

“My mother?” Tiberius repeated, fear flashing through him. Domitia Malfoy was in all ways limitless, but aging nonetheless. She would be attending the match today, despite Tiberius’s warning that the atmosphere might grow overwhelming for the elderly witch. “What happened?”

“Nerves, I think. She’s fainted. Abraxas is trying to revive her-”

“Right,” said Tiberius, and networking was over once his family’s safety was involved. He and Antonin hurried up the remainder of the stands, Dolohov just ahead to clear the way and ensure nobody attempted to pull the Minister aside for a chat.

By the time they arrived at the box reserved for the Malfoy family, it seemed Abraxas had managed to revive her, though Domitia Malfoy couldn’t exactly be described as calm.

Abraxas kneeled beside her seat, trying to remove the goblet of what Tiberius suspected was some sort of intoxicating beverage, which would explain Domitia’s fiery energy at the moment. Melania sat near her parents, Charis and Casper Crouch, keeping her lips neatly pursed. The poor girl was still pale from all she’d gone through the past week, but Tiberius was pleased she felt well enough to attend the match. Melania was quietly listening to the conversation taking place. The Crouches, mostly just Charis Crouch, were apparently locked in a heated discussion with a fuming Domitia.

Tiberius glanced at Dolohov for an explanation, baffled as to what was going on.

“Charis asked if Natalie would be marrying soon. Sent Mrs. Malfoy -- Domitia -- on a tirade. Mentioned, er, Natalie’s mother, and all. She got worked up and fainted, which is when Abraxas sent me to find you.”

Domitia apparently was not done letting everyone know her opinions concerning this topic. “A perfect match! Theia and Rabastan. Perfect! He loved her, you know. But Theia stumbles upon a handsome Muggle and look-” Domitia jabbed a finger towards the air, in the direction where her granddaughter had just narrowly swerved around a Bludger.

“She looks just like her! Now Rabastan and Fabienne was a fine match, a fine match indeed! They’ve got a lovely son, Adolphus. I schemed of him and Natalie, yes, certainly! But he just got engaged to Savanna Rowle, did you hear?”

Charis Crouch, a former Black, was loving the gossip and urged Domitia on. “What about the Averys? They’ve got a son the same age, haven’t they?”

“As does Seamus Dawson, Clarence Rosier, and Terrence Nott! They’re all friends, you know! With my granddaughter as their little ringleader, her and that boyfriend-”

“Boyfriend?” gasped Charis Crouch, “I’d heard Irma was pushing her son, Alphard, to-”

“Not Alphard, no. They would be a good match. Both with tempers. I hear Alphard’s a case, too. But no, she takes after her mother, apparently. Comes home with a handsome halfblood who's got Salazar Slytherin’s blood in him-”

“What!” Charis’s gasp was even louder this time. “A descendent of Slytherin? A halfblood?”

“Merope Gaunt -- there’s a name I’ve not heard in some time. I had a run-in with her father, Marvolo, years back. He was an interesting bloke. Not too bright, not too handsome, either, like his whole family-”

“You’re letting your granddaughter see such a-”

“I wouldn’t, had the lad not been such a dashing wizard. Top of his class, Head Boy, striking looks -- charming too -- you’d never suspect-”

“Mother,” Tiberius was tired of the drivel. He stepped into the box and approached Domitia, laying a hand on her now frail shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Of course, dear,” she gave him a smile and patted his hand. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I was informed you’d fainted-”

“Nonsense, a moment of fatigue. Just passing. Nothing serious. Come in, sit down, Tiberius. We’re having a lovely chat about the English team’s Seeker. . . .”

“Yes, it sounded rather lovely,” said Tiberius, taking the seat beside his mother. Abraxas occupied the other side. Tiberius dismissed Dolohov with a nod and watched him head down to join a box containing many of those just mentioned by Domitia. Adolphus Lestrange, Eric Dawson, Evan Rosier, Zacharias Nott, Lloyd Avery, Seymour Mulciber, Jonathan Shaw, Giles Morrison, along with Savanna Rowle, Quinn Bulstrode, Pamela Selwyn, and a few others whom Tiberius could not recognize through the crowd. His gaze lingered on Selwyn when his mother drew his attention back to their box.

“We never suspected we’d have a Quidditch star in our family. . . if anyone I’d suspected it would be you, Tiberius.”

Realizing he hadn’t paid a speck of attention to the match, Tiberius made a mental note to mention the name “Potter” to his son, before checking the score. It was seventy to fifty, China with the lead. He watched the Chasers battle for the Quaffle as Domitia droned on. Her words faded to the back of his mind as the match enthralled him. The new robes the Bulstrodes’ company had designed for the English team looked magnificent; dark blue with a neat red and white design flowing down the front, mimicking the shape of Saint George’s cross, with the players’ names and numbers stitched on the back in a bold white font.

The Chasers on both teams scuffled, rather violently, for the Quaffle. The English Beaters rushed in to drive Bludgers their way. One struck a Chinese Chaser, who dropped the Quaffle. An English Chaser scooped it up and barrelled down the pitch, making the audience erupt.

Flying towards the opposing goal posts, the Chaser attempted a fake on the Chinese Keeper, who saw right through it. The Quaffle was tossed to no avail, the Keeper easily scooped it up and passed it off to his own Chasers.

China now in possession, the Chasers dashed down the pitch, heading towards the English goal. An English Beater sent a Bludger towards the incoming assault, but he missed, and nearly hit the Chinese Seeker, who evidently liked to hover directly above the game play.

That was when Natalie dove -- streaking downwards like a hawk striking its prey. The audience flew to its feet, screaming as she dropped as if gravity did not exist. The Chinese Seeker, at first disoriented from dodging the Bludger, hastened to follow. 

Tiberius found himself on his feet, his mother clutching at the sleeve of his robes as he held his breath, watching the scene play out.

Natalie continued diving, robes flaring out all around her, a blur of blue, red, and white. The Chinese Seeker hot on her tail. Then she jumped up, leveling out right underneath the game play. The Chinese Seeker struggled to keep pace with her, he dropped lower than she had, not anticipating her to cease the descent so soon, and pursued her down the pitch. The English Chasers intercepted a pass between the Chinese Chasers as they were distracted by the excitement caused by the Seekers. The play reversed, with England driving back towards the Chinese goal posts. The three English Chasers tossed the Quaffle amongst themselves like the winking of a coy witch. They teased the Chinese Chasers by keeping it just out of their reach. 

Natalie flew beneath the English Chasers, with the Chinese Seeker slightly below her. The audience continued roaring, though Tiberius wasn’t quite sure where the Snitch even was. He assumed Natalie must have seen it though, as she bolted through the air at top speed, almost as if matching the rhythm of her fellow Chasers immediately above her.

Tiberius understood the strategy the instant before it played out in front of half the British wizarding population. Natalie adjusted her flying course, tilting her broom towards the sky and dashed in between the three English Chasers. The timing was impeccable, and clearly well-practiced. As she slipped between the English Chasers, the Chinese Seeker, focused more on following her than on what was going on around them, also attempted to jerk his broom up. Only to nearly crash into one of the English Chasers. He narrowly swerved around the English Chaser — but had been delayed long enough for Natalie to snatch the golden Snitch from where it buzzed above the heads of the Chasers.


	23. January 1946: New Stipulations

Giles Morrison stared at the piece of parchment before him. The only sound in his office was the ticking of the clock on the wall. A steady and relentless  _ tick tock  _ that drove him bloody mental. He had tried to put a silencing spell on it multiple times, even tried removing it from the wall. The damn thing wouldn’t budge. He suspected it was some sort of goblin prank.

_ Tick tock  _ was all he heard as he gaped at what was before him. He spent some time gawking at the parchment before he shakily reached over to pick up his wand. He tapped it on the parchment and whispered a spell, almost afraid he would be overheard. 

The parchment, with the stark Gringotts logo on it, remained unchanged. It was real. So were its contents. Sucking in a breath, he dropped his wand and slumped back in his chair. He felt obligated to present this to his boss. But if it had ended up on his desk, in his daily paperwork, his boss must already be aware of it. The more he ruminated over it, the more he suspected he wasn’t supposed to have seen the parchment. Perhaps it had accidentally ended up on his desk? Though that did seem far-fetched, as well as an extraordinary lapse of the usual goblin fastidiousness, he did know of a few goblins who weren’t as bright as Gringotts liked to pretend. Agnel, the son of his boss, being one of them.

A sudden idea popping into his head, Morrison seized his wand and tapped the parchment again. An identical copy of the parchment appeared next to it. Morrison snorted, goblins thought they were so brilliant when it came to business. But when it came to magic. . . any idiot would know you ought to magically protect such an incriminating piece of evidence.

Morrison flicked his wand and an envelope appeared. Folding the copy of the parchment, he stuck it inside and sealed it with a tap of his wand. Another tap, and it vanished from his desk. 

Hoping he’d made the right decision (though he wasn’t sure by what standard any of this could be considered ‘right’), he jumped to his feet, snatched up the original version of the parchment, and strolled out of his office.

Navigating his way through the dimly lit hallways of the back offices of Gringotts bank, Morrison wondered if Agnel, whose fault he assumed it was that the parchment landed on his desk, had potentially cost him his job out of his sheer idiocy. The possibility made his hands tremble. It was very well that goblins preferred to interact with wizardkind as little as possible these days. He understood why there had been wars in the past now. On top of being arrogant, rude and duplicitous, goblins could be damn  _ annoying. _

Morrison stepped around a goblin staggering down the hallway with an enormous bar of solid gold (or what looked like gold), and knocked on Kregmar’s door. He wasn’t even sure if his boss was in today, or if Kregmar had gone back to his home near Nottingham and informed nobody, which he was prone to do.

“Enter,” answered Morrison’s question. He turned the brass knob and stepped into the office. 

Kregmar’s office was vast, much larger than Morrison’s, but cluttered with knick knacks of all kinds. Most were weapons -- goblin-made weapons at that. Scattered around the office like some sort of deadly menagerie. Anything that wasn’t a weapon was related to Gringotts, including what Morrison suspected were dragon teeth from some of the beasts kept underground. The walls were covered with framed contracts Kregmar had overseen between some of the most prestigious families and companies in the wizarding world. It was clear he took great care of these, as they shone with a proud glare upon anyone who entered. A heap of what Morrison guessed were counterfeit Galleons occupied one corner, next to a mountain of  _ Daily Prophets _ , all displaying witches and wizards now serving sentences in Azkaban for the use of the counterfeit currency. 

Agnel, Kregmar’s notorious son, sat on top of this heap of fake Galleons, clutching a live monkey in one gnarled hand. In the other, he held one of the phoney gold coins, which he kept trying to give the monkey to bite.

“Morrison,” droned Kregmar from behind his desk. The goblin sat on a stack of books piled onto his chair, hunched over what looked like a list of account balances. He peered up at Morrison from behind his silver-framed glasses and gave him a glare. Two complete suits of goblin-wrought armor stood on either side of the desk, making for an intimidating sight. “What do you want?”

“Come to yap no doubt,” Agnel leered, breaking into a grin when the monkey finally took the gold coin and began biting at it, chattering all the while and making an awful racket. “And interrupting how busy we are.”

“Yes, I can see you both are remarkably busy,” Morrison kept all sarcasm out of his voice, in spite of how much he wished to lay it on thick, particularly upon seeing the monkey swallow the gold coin and immediately start gagging. “I wanted to drop this off,” he held up the parchment, making sure Agnel could also see it. “I believe it accidentally ended up on my desk. . . .”

Goblins possess a far less varied repertoire of facial expressions than witches and wizards, but nonetheless, Morrison thoroughly enjoyed the look of horror that flashed across Agnel’s face upon his presentation of the parchment. The look also told Morrison that Agnel had most likely authored what was on the parchment. While the goblin was infuriating, he certainly had tricks up his sleeve.

“And what is that?” Kregmar squinted across the room, but his son leapt into action. He dropped the retching monkey and rushed towards Morrison as the monkey landed with a choked squawk on the heap of gold coins.

“Nothing, father!” Agnel announced loudly, “it’s nothing. I’ll handle it, and I’ll make sure those fools down in internal operations are dealt with accordingly. This wouldn’t be the first time they botched some documentation. It was probably Finngard, he’s incompetent -- and going blind.” Agnel raised a hand and gestured; Morrison lowered the parchment towards the goblin but Agnel grabbed his wrist and pulled him downwards so his father couldn’t hear.

“A word of the contents of this to anyone and you’ll wish you’ve never been born, wizard.”

Releasing his wrist, Agnel snatched the parchment and quickly folded it up. “You can go, Morrison.”

He looked to Kregmar, who nodded and waved a hand, clearly no longer interested in the situation, turning instead to watch the monkey cough up the fake Galleon. Without saying anything further, Morrison turned and stepped out of the office. Once down the hall he let out a chuckle. The stupidity of Kregmar’s son would be the death of both goblins.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Abraxas Malfoy shuffled through the stack of parchment on the desk in the Malfoy Manor study. Before him were long lists of all the individual potions sellers which Triple I supplied. They stretched from Dublin to Istanbul and everywhere in between. Abraxas was especially proud of the new agreement recently reached with the major apothecaries in West Germany. Now that the Muggle war had ended, economic prospects were turning around on the mainland continent. Though he’d have to send Lestrange and Dawson on a trip to make sure West Germany would be upholding their end of the contract. If they resold their stock to East Germany and the Soviets then the stalemate Triple I had with the Russian Ministry would be pointless. Glancing up at Lestrange and Dawson, who were with him in the study, he muffled a laugh. They hated the paperwork part of their job. Right now he had them tabulating the reports from all the apothecaries in the British Isles. He knew they would much rather be on some action-packed adventure.

“Adolphus,” he called across the office and both his and Dawson’s heads perked up. 

“Yeah?” they said in unison.

“And Eric,” added Abraxas with a snicker. “When do you two want to go to West Germany?”

Delight flashed across their faces. “Today?”

“Tomorrow,” he said with a shake of his head. They sometimes forgot you had to actually plan things out in advance before jumping right in. “Leave the British numbers alone and get everything we have on Germany. And whatever we have on the Eastern Bloc too.”

“Right away, boss,” crowed Lestrange and he shuffled all the parchment into a neat stack. Dawson practically skipped across the room to the shelves holding the company’s files.

Glad to have made somebody’s day, Abraxas scrawled his signature at the bottom of a piece of parchment and smiled to himself. No sooner had he laid down his quill did an envelope appear before him with a small pop. It floated in midair before falling onto the desk. Baffled, and very much intrigued, he pushed aside the parchment and picked up the envelope. It was a plain and nondescript envelope, void of all writing. There wasn’t even a name on it addressing it to himself. It had, however, appeared on his desk, right in front of him, so he took the liberty of opening it. Sliding out the folded parchment tucked inside, he eagerly read its contents.

Abraxas was so engrossed in what the letter contained he didn’t realize Dawson had been calling his name for several minutes.

“Abraxas? Abraxas?” Dawson stood before him, rapping his knuckles on the desk. Abraxas finally glanced up at him, trying to keep his face composed. “Should we review what we have on Russia itself, too?”

“Er, yeah, yes, sure,” Abraxas had barely heard the question. “One of you run and find my grandmother. Now.”

Intrigue flashed over Dawson’s face, but he nodded and turned tail, slipping out of the office. Lestrange glanced over at Abraxas. 

“What is it?”

“Interesting bit of news from Gringotts.”

“Gringotts? We haven’t met with them-”

“This is from an. . . inside source, I suspect.”

Lestrange’s eyes widened. “So it’s something illegal then?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“What kind of illegal?” Lestrange had flown over to the desk. He hopped on top of it and settled himself cross-legged, looking like an overgrown hawk waiting to strike upon some juicy piece of gossip.

Before Abraxas could reply, Domitia stepped into the office, Dawson right behind her.

“Eric didn’t explain what this was about,” said Domitia in an irritated voice. “I’m having tea with the Rosiers at the moment.”

Abraxas held out the letter that had appeared on his desks moments ago. Lestrange craned his neck, trying to glimpse its contents.

Narrowing her eyes, Domitia slowly approached and took it. Scanning it over, her forehead creased. She showed no other reaction to the contents of the letter.

“Where did this come from?”

“It just appeared on my desk-”

“You don’t know who sent it?”

“I’ve my suspicions.”

“Don’t trust everything that crosses your desk, Abraxas,” said Domitia. She glanced it over once more and handed it back to her grandson. “Read it again.”

Abraxas blinked, but obeyed. He looked back up, still puzzled. The contents had remained the same.

“Have you got it memorized?” she asked harshly.

“Yes-”

“Good. Burn it. Tell your father about it before August, if a situation arises where it may be. . . useful.”

Abraxas faltered, clutching the mysterious letter tighter. “Burn it?”

“Yes,” Domitia held her hand back out and Abraxas returned the letter to her. Lestrange and Dawson watched with intense curiosity as she crossed the room and dropped the letter in the empty fireplace. Retrieving her wand, she flicked it, and a fire roared to life, burning the letter to ashes.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Crockett,” Reginald Harlowe greeted the scarred redhead as he apparated at the entrance to the English team’s Quidditch stadium. Dressed in black robes with a leather portfolio tucked under one arm, the agent looked all business.

“Harlowe,” Winky Crockett gave him a nod. “She still here?”

Harlowe snorted as he drew an “X” through the air with his wand to slice a cutout in the magical shield around the stadium. “They all are. It’s like they live here now. They’ve installed beds and have house-elves serving them a meal every hour. It’s ridiculous.”

“Bet you love it,” said Crockett as he stepped through the glowing green rectangle and into the stadium’s boundaries.

“Bloody bollocks. It means I’ve got to stay here all day and night too. Bertram and I have barely been home to see our wives since December. Guarding this bloody team is now the Ministry’s top priority.”

Crockett gave the Auror a thin smile. “Are they at least making it worth your while?”

Reginald Harlowe pulled something from his pocket and flashed it under the agent’s nose. Crockett recognized it instantly. It was the latest widely-circulated photo of Natalie Malfoy, taken just as she snatched up the Snitch during their victory over China back in December. 

“That should pull a pretty sum,” said Crockett. He’d last seen that particular photograph going for three hundred Galleons. And that was without the autograph. “Did she actually sign it?” Malfoy’s autograph looked different each time she signed it. Crockett kept having to tell her to cut the shit; it made it easy for blokes to forge her signature and try to pawn them off as authentic autographs.

“Yes,” Harlowe sounded offended. “I watched her do it myself. I’ve got the whole team’s autographs.”

“Good,” said Crockett. “Mind telling me where she can be found?”

“Locker room, no doubt,” said Harlowe. “Whole team is there too.”

“Thanks,” Crockett slid past the Auror and tapped his wand in a certain pattern on the brick wall adjacent to the tunnel leading out to the stands. The wall melted away and revealed a heavy wooden door with a large brass doorknob. Crockett turned the knob and pushed; the door squeaked open and a rush of cool air blew out to greet him. 

He stepped into the well-lit corridor and closed the door behind him, the brick wall rearranging itself back together over the door. He briskly walked down the hallway, enjoying the Quidditch lore that filled the corridor. The walls were covered with the history of the English national team, stretching back to the 1600s. As he approached the team’s dressing room, the history morphed into current events. Newspaper clippings, magazine articles, and an assortment of roving photographs were pasted onto the walls, displaying everything from the latest sighting of the team in Diagon Alley, to their upcoming match against Portugal. He understood another reason why the Ministry was insisting on the tight security. The walls had a fortune casually magicked onto them by the players who were on track to become the most wealthy inhabitants of the wizarding world.

The door to the team’s room stood ajar, low murmuring drifted out into the hallway. It was the quietest Crockett had ever heard the team. He assumed they must have finished an intense practice.

Approaching the door, he peeked into the locker room and quickly scanned it. He could barely tell it was the team’s dressing room. It had been completely transformed to resemble a lavishly furnished type of common room. Wall-to-wall carpet with the team logo at the very center of the room covered the floor. The walls themselves were draped with elaborate tapestries, and wherever there was a bare space, more newspaper clippings and photographs of the team. Crockett had a suspicion a large portion of one of the walls was taken up by love letters written to Ricky Webster. Navy blue couches with lumpy cushions were scattered around the room, though it seemed only Eugene Dent actually bothered sitting properly on them. The captain had settled himself on one of these couches, and pored over a piece of parchment that had what looked like the team’s next game plan on it. Whereas, Ricky Webster and Leonard Cadwallader sat on top of the wide table beside the team logo at the center of the room. This table boasted a variety of food and drink and Ricky appeared to be throwing grapes into Cadwallader’s mouth, to little success (Crockett supposed it was a very good thing neither of them were Chasers). The Pottinger triplets sprawled out on the floor nearby, a vicious game of Exploding Snaps occurring between them. Finally, the player he was looking for sat on the floor with her back against the couch opposing Dent, a book in hand. She was already staring at him, as if she’d heard him coming down the hallway.

Crockett took a second to hold in his laughter over the fact that all of them were sporting blue pajama-style bathrobes that were identical to their new uniforms for matches. Complete with their names and numbers on the back. Another Bulstrode production, he suspected.

“Knock, knock,” he formally announced his presence at the door.

Only Dent bothered glancing over, while Natalie just laughed. Crockett realized yet another reason why Aurors were needed for security. The Pottingers, Webster, and Cadwallader would probably allow Grindelwald to walk right into their locker room and not notice until he started flinging spells at them.z

“Crockett,” Dent greeted him with a nod.

He returned the nod. “Dent. Mind if I borrow the team princess for a moment?”

“Sure,” he waved a hand and returned to poring over his parchment.

“Depends on what it’s about,” said Natalie, peering over the top of her book at him with narrowed silver eyes.

Crockett held up the portfolio he had brought along. “Contract stuff.”

“Oh,” she pursed her lips but tossed the book aside and rolled up to her feet. He had seen her just last week but Crockett did a double take at her appearance now. She had cut off half of her hair so that it just brushed the tops of her shoulders. She almost looked like an entirely different person. “Sure. Let’s go outside.”

“Uh, like that?” he gestured to her robe. She was barefoot as well. 

“Yeah,” she replied tonelessly. “This is my home. I live here.”

Dent let out a snort at this while Crockett muttered, “clearly” under his breath, but he quietly followed Natalie back out into the hallway without another remark.

They strolled in silence down the corridor, this time heading towards the back entrance of the stadium. The walls here were plastered with photographs of the team from their travels around the globe over the past year.

“So. . . contract stuff?” Natalie finally asked once they reached the brick wall leading to the back of the stadium. She stepped through the wall and vanished without waiting for his reply.

Crockett sighed in exasperation, hurrying to keep up with her. He ducked through the wall and found her greeting the Auror guarding this entrance.

“Hey, Tarold.”

“Malfoy,” Bertram Tarold gave her a winning smile. He was clearly much happier with his assignment than Harlowe. He ran a hand through his brown curls and winked. “Looking ravishing today.”

“Don’t let your wife hear you say that,” she warned him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Gesturing Crockett after her, Natalie prowled down the tunnel to the stadium entrance. The pitch was dark at this hour, only slightly illuminated by magical blue lights floating along the goalposts on either end. They threw eerie and distorted shadows all over the stadium. Crockett felt a chill run down his spine as though in the presence of a ghost. Natalie was evidently much more at ease with the creepy atmosphere of the stadium; she stuck her hands into the pockets of her bathrobe and had a slight spring in her step. 

“So, what, are you all living here full time now?” he asked as they stepped onto the field. “Was that Dent’s idea?”

“We’ve stayed overnight in the past, just finally reckoned we could at least do it comfortably. And no, it was mine.”

“I hear Domitia isn’t too pleased with you staying here, now that you’re not traveling as much for the team-”

“She can mind her own business, I’m an adult, not some poor orphan she still needs to coddle!” snapped Natalie, making Crockett raise an eyebrow at her sudden outburst. Her entire demeanor had changed in an instant, the chill along his spine was now for an entirely different reason.

“Touchy subject, I take it,” he said casually. 

“I don’t see what’s wrong with me staying here,” she said, kicking at the magically manicured grass and continuing towards the middle of the pitch, which made Crockett think she definitely had another reason for not wanting to leave the stadium. “Doesn’t everyone want us to win?”

“Of course. There’s just a lot of. . . background work that goes into keeping the national team holed up in a stadium. Like the Aurors-”

“They don’t seem to mind it, especially after we all gave them autographs.”

“Sure, but the Aurors do have other assignments.”

She remained silent, coming to a stop at the dead center of the pitch. Her platinum hair seemed to glow in the darkness, ghost-like and otherworldly. The goal posts towered over them like observant giants. Crockett studied them keenly, half-expecting to see some macabre creature flying about.

“So, contract stuff?” she repeated, drawing his attention back to her.

“Yeah,” he said, tugging some of the parchment from his portfolio. He could hardly see in the dim lighting. “Gringotts and. . . Triple I.”

“Oh, the big players,” she said. 

“Exactly. And with only a few rounds left. . . they’ve got some new. . . ideas. Dependent on if you get there, of course, but worth noting.”

“Triple I was already contracted out to supply the Cup Final and most of the other companies and services involved, regardless of who plays in the Final, I heard,” he could just see the slight frown crossing her face. “Didn’t Matt Lament help secure that? He’s on the ICWQC now, right?”

“He is,” Crockett nodded. 

“So. . . what else could Triple I add to  _ my  _ contract?”

“A. . . percentage.”

Natalie paused; studying the looming stands where the audience would be on a match day, now encircling them as though eavesdropping. Crockett watched her stare up at the opposing goal in silence for a few minutes. Shadows criss-crossed her face, lending a darkness to her pale features. When she glanced back at him, her eyes were an inky gray, almost black.

“Of the Cup Final winnings.” It wasn’t a question. “If we get there, of course.”

“Correct,” breathed Crockett. It suddenly struck him that she wanted to talk outside, in the middle of the pitch, because she was already aware of the rather. . . underhanded nature of the new contract stipulations.

“Gringotts wants the same?”

“Gringotts wants more. Triple I only wants seven percent of the Cup winnings. Gringotts wants ten. . . and-”

“And what?”

“And then ten percent of all winnings for the rest of-”

“My Quidditch career.”

Crockett paused, watching the calculations in her eyes. “Correct — if you go on to play for the Tornadoes — and win, of course.”

“What’s my part of the quid pro quo?”

“Five percent interest accrued on all gold you keep at Gringotts. . . compounded monthly. . . for life.”

“Compounded monthly for life,” she whistled, then held out a hand. Crockett placed the documentation in it. He had no idea how she could see in the murky lighting, but she ran through the stack of parchment, eyes skimming every line.

“Starting the month after I win the Cup. If I win the Cup, that is.”

“Correct,” he said again.

“I see,” she hummed and continued flipping through the parchment. “Hold on. . . . This one isn’t technically from Triple I,” she realized, looking up at him. “It’s from my cousin.”

“Yeah-”

Natalie let out a soft laugh. “This says I’d get to be godmother of his first child. But the seven percent wouldn’t go to the company, it would go directly to Abraxas’s vault.”

“Yes; the ICWQC announced last week that any sponsor could only write five percent of the Cup winnings into contracts with players. Technically, Abraxas isn’t sponsoring you. Triple I is.”

“Quill,” Natalie held a hand out in his direction. Crockett obliged, pulling a quill from the portfolio and handing it to her. She tapped the tip and Crockett glimpsed black ink on it before she scribbled her signature on the parchment from Abraxas Malfoy. “Keeps it in the family. . . and technically not illegal, but Gringotts. . . .”

“I’m assuming that’s why the interest is compounded monthly. . . for life,” Crockett knew she had to understand that Gringotts was essentially paying her to keep her mouth shut.

“Does anyone else know about these?” she stared him in the eye, and Crockett experienced a tingling feeling along his temple.

“No, besides myself.”

“I don’t need to tell you to keep it that way, then. We’re both posed to become fabulously wealthy after all this.”

Crockett tried to suppress a grin, thinking about the line in his own contract as her agent, entitling him to a certain percentage of the Cup Final winnings as well. Not to mention the dual ownership they had on her name brand and image. Both of them were already fabulously wealthy.

“No, you do not.”


	24. February 1946: England vs Portugal

On the first day of February, the stadium on the Scotland-England border was packed to the brim. England was hosting Portugal in the Quarterfinals of the Quidditch World Cup. The winner would go on to play the winner of the United States versus Mongolia match, which would take place across the Atlantic later that day. The winners of  _ that _ match would have the chance to compete for the World Cup this coming summer. It was not a day to be taken lightly, least of all by the teams themselves.

The score currently 350-340, with England just holding the lead, the match had gone on for nearly five hours now. The Snitch hadn’t been sighted by either Seeker once. A timeout had been called by English team captain, Eugene Dent, after his Seeker took a Bludger to the chest that had been meant for the Portuguese Seeker.

“Get your fucking head out of the goddamn clouds, Malfoy!” Dent yelled at Natalie as she winced, clutching her chest in the midst of their team huddle and leaning heavily on her broom. “We’re in the middle of a match! Do you want to fucking win this or not?!”

“Yeah, I wanna win,” she muttered, gingerly pressing a hand to her ribs. She wasn’t sure if the Bludger hit had broken one. It hurt like hell, but Dent was right. She’d gotten hit because her head was a cesspool, her thoughts wracked her brain like a furious twister, and she had not been paying much attention to the match around her. She was exhausted mentally, and now physically. The match was taking  _ forever _ . The faces of her teammates told her they were just as drained.

“Sorry,” Caddy whispered to her. “I was hoping it’d get the ugly bloke out of your way.”

Natalie had to hold in a laugh, which made her ribs hurt even more. The Portuguese Seeker was objectively an ugly bloke. Pasty, pimply Caddy looked positively winsome compared to him.

“Oi, does Malfoy need medical attention?” a Mediwizard approached the team huddle.

Natalie shot a panicked look at Dent, who narrowed his eyes but gave her an imperceptible nod. 

“No, she’s alright,” barked Dent and once the Mediwizard backed away, he glared at Natalie and muttered, “for now.”

“Want me to pop it back in place for you, love?” asked Ricky, dropping his bat to the ground and cracking his knuckles.

One of the Pottingers, possibly Ted, shook his head, making his brothers snicker. “That’s not how ribs work, you dunderhead.”

Dent sighed, “Malfoy, I swear to Merlin, do not let me down here-”

“I’m fine,” grunted Natalie, lightly pressing on her rib and straightening up. She restrained herself from flinching. Caddy could whack a goddamn Bludger, it hurt like a bloody bitch.

“Let’s go,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as frightened as she thought it did.

She must have thought wrong. Worry flashed across Dent’s face, but the referee started hollering at them to get back in the air.

Natalie turned away from the team, slinging herself onto her broom and beginning to rise in the air. Dent grabbed her robes and tugged her down before she could rise too high, dislodging the sleeve of her robes from its place tucked under her wrist guard.

“Malfoy,” he said sharply, “just catch it and we’re done.” 

Natalie nodded, too busy trying to block out the pain to bother responding. 

He released her and she shot back upwards, the crowd roaring as she did so. The loosened sleeve of her robe flapped about, sending air rushing down her arm. But she had bigger problems than fixing it at the moment. She stuck one hand to her broom, keeping her elbow stiff to force herself to sit as upright as possible in order to alleviate some of the burning she felt from her chest. Bloody hell.

The physical pain did one useful thing, however. She was so focused on finding the Snitch in order to end the pain that her head didn’t have any time to run wild with everything she had been troubled about before. Tom Riddle’s hollow black eyes no longer floated through her mind. Nor did the piercing screams of house-elves, or the bloodied face of Willow Avery, or Abraxas’s eyes when he told her Melania had a miscarriage, or the creeping thought that  _ she _ had caused Melania to lose the baby, due to the same uncontrolled release of energy that had caused the windows of the Manor to shatter and then ruined the party that Christmas Eve night.

A cough tore through her as the match resumed. The Pottingers tossed the Quaffle around only to be blocked by the Portuguese Keeper. Eyes darting around, she spotted the Portuguese Seeker. He hovered nearby and she accidentally made eye contact with him. There was nothing she hated more in a Quidditch match than making eye contact with the opposing Seeker. Annoyed and suppressing another cough, she flew off, darting over the play to scope out the stadium. Where was the bloody Snitch? She hadn’t caught a glance of it all game. 

_ C’mon.  _ She continued cruising about, head on a swivel. She had done this hundreds, if not thousands of times. She had to do it one more time and then they were one step closer to the Cup. And then she could get rid of the wracking pain running through her chest. 

She coughed, unable to stop it, and winced as the movement shot a bolt of fire through her ribs. Dammit. Glancing down, Portugal had scored, tying the game. She watched the Pottingers retrieve possession of the Quaffle and quickly put them back in the lead. That had been the trend the entire game. The only other trend being that the  _ bloody Snitch was nowhere to be seen. _

Gripping her broom with one hand as tight as she could, she darted to the opposite side of the field, as the Portuguese Seeker had once again gotten too close to her. Stupid idiot. He hadn’t had any more luck in seeing the Snitch than she had.

Another cough, a guttural hack this time and her throat felt warm and sticky. Something wet splattered onto her lips and her instinct was to glance up to see if it was raining.

It was not raining. The stadium was enclosed by several protection enchantments that made it impervious to the weather despite it being considered “open-air.” She knew that.

Trying to focus on her breathing, which, she realized, was becoming rather difficult, Natalie raised the hand not tightly clutching the broom to swipe at her mouth — and felt something hard hit her just below the chin.

What the hell? Bewildered, she pulled her hand away. It was the arm Dent had snatched the robes from her wrist guard so they flapped about in the air. But there seemed to be a bump under her robes that shouldn’t have been there. She first thought she had gotten her arm hurt too and it had swollen, but that was ridiculous. Her pain-wracked ribs clearly told her where the injury was. Unsticking her other hand from the broom and using her knees to balance to avoid using any core strength, she slowly pulled back the sleeve of her robes and watched the Snitch neatly fall out into her hand.

Natalie could do nothing but gawk. She forgot she was high above the stadium in the middle of a match, that she could hardly breathe, and that her ribs were like a vice around her lungs. The first thing she felt was disappointment. There would be no dramatic chase for the Snitch this match. No flawlessly executed sequence with her teammates. No screaming crowd as she pursued the Snitch like it was the most important thing on the planet.

No. Instead the little bugger had flown up her fucking sleeve and gotten stuck there. What a stupid winged ball. Of all ways for a match to end. . . she supposed she ought to thank Dent for tugging her sleeve free. . . he would gloat about it for days, weeks, even.

Wrapping her fingers around the Snitch, she glanced around. Nobody had noticed. The match continued below her, the crowd screaming when the Pottingers knocked home another goal for England. Even the Portuguese Seeker, who had followed her across the stadium, floated just below her, eyes following the play of the match as the Portuguese Chasers barreled towards Dent and the English goal.

Natalie blinked. She didn’t know what to do. Should she raise her fist in victory? She doubted anyone would notice that either. She didn’t feel triumphant, just relieved. The match was over. She could take a bloody nap and-

A cough tore through her and she had the sudden urge to vomit. She fell forward, holding tightly to her broom with one hand, clutching the Snitch with the other as her insides seemed to want to swim around. She remained still for a few moments, clenching her teeth and blinking with each wave of fresh pain. Something wet coated her lips again, and remembering what she had tried to do seconds ago, she shakily raised her hand to her lips and kissed the Snitch. When she pulled it back, streaks of blood stained its gold surface. Its wings flickered wildly for a moment, before growing still between her fingers. Her ribs were definitely broken and the blood indicated something else, possibly a punctured lung. Brilliant. Well, the match was over now, even if she was the only one who knew it. 

Had she not been struggling to breathe, she would have giggled as she descended back down to the ground. She dropped at a steady speed, ignoring the continued gameplay of the match. They would find out eventually.

About halfway to the ground, she pushed her left leg over the side of her broomstick as if she were riding it sidesaddle. The position was much more comfortable for her broken ribs, as she didn’t have to lean forwards. She continued drifting downwards, clearing her throat and sucking in any air she could while aiming for the cluster of Aurors, reporters, Mediwizards, and other staff near the entrance to the teams’ dressing rooms. Her approach caused an uproar amongst this group.

“MALFOY I ASKED IF YOU NEEDED MEDICAL ATTENTION DURING THE TIME OUT!” shouted the Mediwizard from earlier.

The reporters, meanwhile, were going mental, shouting to their assistants who frantically tried to scribble out the play-by-play articles that would be published tomorrow morning. 

“IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE MATCH? IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MATCH-”

“MALFOY DROPS FROM THE SKY MID-MATCH-”

“ENGLISH SEEKER CALLS IT QUITS? NATALIE MALFOY LEAVES GAME PLAY-”

Hacking at the stickiness in her throat, Natalie dropped to the ground in front of this group, slid off her broom and managed to stand, though her legs started to shake and her knees very much wanted to give out. Camera lights flashed and the reporters questions grew frantic as the game continued above her. 

Natalie’s gaze drifted over the cameras and the reporters without blinking, as her vision was becoming blurry anyway. She raised the hand in which she clutched the Snitch and showed them the tiny, blood-stained ball, hoping they would shut up once they realized the match had ended. Two familiar faces caught her eye in the mob. Taking a few steps, she grabbed the quill Jonathan Shaw was scribbling something out with and dropped the bloodied Snitch into his hand instead. She shot a wink at a gaping Lloyd Avery before the Mediwizards were in her face, and she was getting dragged past the reporters and into the tunnel leading to their dressing room.

* * *

Eugene Dent was in a state of shock. He barely had any idea what happened. He had watched his Seeker drift down to the ground in the middle of the match — and next thing he knew, the match was over. 

A Mediwizard signaled to the referee that the match had ended, the referee blew his whistle, and Dent rushed down to the ground, dropped his broom onto the pitch, and practically tore off his Keeper’s equipment. Heading straight into the tunnel, past the reporters who were losing their minds a little extra over the ending of this match, the rest of the team hot on his heels. He had to find his Seeker, he had to know what the bloody hell had happened. He hadn’t seen her catch the Snitch. One minute she hovered above the pitch, the next she was on the ground.

The team charged through the tunnel, which was packed with Mediwizards, Aurors, and other support staff. The Aurors and most of the staff started clapping and congratulating them, which was how Dent learned that they must have won. Ricky and Caddy took the opportunity to enjoy the attention; bowing, whooping, and offering autographs and photos. The Pottingers’ Irish wives all ran into their husband’s arms at nearly the exact same instant, which made Dent feel even more surreal.

“Oi,” he snatched the arm of a Mediwizard hurrying past. “Where’s Malfoy?”

“Medical room,” snapped the Mediwizard, pushing by him. Dent attempted to tail him, as he was heading in that direction anyway, but some of Jack Lament’s support staff stepped in front of him to say their congratulations.

Finally extricating himself out of the crowd, he bolted towards the door of the medical room, only to find Seymour Mulciber and Reginald Harlowe guarding it.

He stared between the two before blurting out, “what happened? Did she catch the Snitch? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she caught it, but with broken ribs, I heard,” Harlowe said with a sympathetic wince. “They haven’t let us in, just told us to make sure nobody entered.”

“Let me in,” demanded Dent.

Harlowe gave him a look. “No.”

Dent went to snap a retort, but instead the medical room door banged open and the Mediwizard who had asked if Natalie needed assistance on the field stepped out, frustration written all over him. He scanned the crowded hallway and shook his head.

“Harlowe. . . clear out all these bloody people. And see if Fabienne Lestrange or Lancelot Prewett are here somewhere.”

“Why?” barked Dent, as Harlowe went off to fulfill this request. “What’s wrong?”

“Malfoy is refusing to be taken to St. Mungo’s, so we’ll need a certified Healer to check her out,” the Mediwizard narrowed his eyes. “She’s got two broken ribs, which I suspect both you and her were aware of during the time out.”

Dent said nothing.

“As I suspected,” the Mediwizard looked personally affronted by his silence. “Quidditch players. Think they’re invincible. . . broken ribs usually aren’t too difficult to fix. But they ended up puncturing her lungs, no doubt from proceeding to play without being attended to, which is why it would be much easier to just bring her to St. Mungo’s, but she nearly bit my head off when I said that. I’ve never met a witch with such a blatant disregard for her physical health.”

Seymour Mulciber made a noise as if he was struggling to keep in a laugh. Dent tossed him a glare. 

“You’re lucky you’ve got time before the next match,” the Mediwizard continued, “hopefully Healer Lestrange can-” the bloke was interrupted by Natalie herself shoving past him and proceeding down the now empty hall towards the team dressing room.

“I. . . Merlin’s beard — Malfoy, you’re in no state-” he hurried off after Natalie. Dent and Mulciber watched him go, trying in vain to get her to stop. Mulciber finally let out a snicker and Dent sighed, not sure if he ought to be exasperated or amused by his Seeker. If she could bolt on down the hall, he knew she’d be fine.

“What happened?” Winky Crockett popped up beside the two, looking dapper as always in the customary black robes and homburg hat he wore on match days. “Rumor is Natalie is bleeding to death.”

“It’s already been exaggerated, wow,” snorted Dent.

Crockett shot Dent a dark look that distorted the white scars on his face. “Not the type of rumor we want spreading.”

“Well,” Mulciber gave him a toothy grin, “then spread another rumor that Malfoy is a stubborn cow and refuses to go to St. Mungo’s to get patched up.”

“St. Mungo’s?” Crockett raised an eyebrow, “was the Bludger hit that bad?”

“Broke her ribs,” replied Dent, now a bit guilty he hadn’t forced the Mediwizards on her during the timeout. “They said her lungs got punctured.”

Crockett’s expression faltered. “That’s. . .”

“Not ideal?” offered Mulciber with a solemn laugh.

“Not the exact wording I was looking for, but it’ll do,” Crockett stepped over to peer into the medical room. “Where is she? Did they convince her to go to St. Mungo’s?”

“No, she ran out and headed to our room,” Dent tilted his head in the direction of the team’s dressing room. They could vaguely hear what sounded like arguing drifting from the open door.

“Where’s Malfoy?” called a voice from down the tunnel. Reginald Harlowe stepped back onto the scene, with both Lancelot Prewett and Fabienne Lestrange behind him.

“Dressing room,” said Dent, nodding at the Healers. Harlowe hurried down the hallway, the Healers following.

Crockett removed his hat to run a hand through his ginger hair and sighed. Then he turned to Dent, “can you see if you can get her to cooperate so they can bring her to St. Mungo’s?”

“Doubt cooperation is likely,” Dent muttered with heavy sarcasm, but walked off down the hall, leaving the two others.

Mulciber glanced over at Crockett. “There’s no way he can convince her. She’s been living here for more than a month. This’ll need a bigger stick. . . .”

“Yeah, I know. I’m meeting with the Minister in a few minutes so I’ll brief him on the situation,” said Crockett with a grim smile. “Ian Rowle is sick of keeping his Aurors posted here all day every day because Natalie had the genius idea to live in this stadium so Tiberius will probably step in, seeing as they won and that she’s been hurt.”

Mulciber had a smug smirk on his face. “He’ll have a lot to say with these latest developments, I’m sure.”

Crockett gave him a curious look but Seymour turned and headed off down the corridor without explaining himself. Shrugging it off, Crockett darted down the hall, towards the back entrance, in the opposite direction Mulciber had gone, so that he passed by the team’s dressing room on his way out. But the door had been closed and the room was magically soundproofed; he couldn’t hear anything. 

He hurried out of the hallway, stepping through the enchanted wall and nodding to Bertram Tarold and Keefe Jameson. The Aurors stood guarding the back entrance, watching the last few fans leave the stadium. They gave him a salute and allowed him to step through the stadium’s protective enchantments. Once outside the boundaries of the stadium, he turned and disapparated away.

Appearing in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, he stalked towards the Minister’s offices, knowing the Minister was anxiously awaiting his report. The top brass of the British Ministry had either opted to not attend the match, or only attended the first half, seeing as it had gone on for over five hours; the owls announcing England’s victory wouldn’t have reached them yet.

The Ministry was dark at this hour, only a few gleaming blue lights reflected off the golden fountain in the middle of the Atrium. The soft sound of tinkling water muffled his footsteps as he headed deeper into the Ministry. A short lift ride and a brief walk and he found himself outside the Minister’s offices. 

The external office door was always open. Crockett let himself in, passing the empty rows of chairs that were reserved for witches and wizards who thought themselves important enough to deserve a meeting with the Minister of Magic. Anybody who actually was important enough simply walked on in. Crockett did this now, sliding past the empty desk Pamela Selwyn usually occupied. The door to the Minister’s internal office had been left ajar, voices and light spilling out into the external office.

Crockett approached, quickly rapping on the doorframe. A voice called him in to enter. He did so and glanced around. Tiberius was present, of course, sitting behind his desk at the center of the office with his fingers steepled as he listened to Rabastan Lestrange outline something. Rabastan, Seamus Dawson, and Jack and Matt Lament sat around the polished wooden table to the left of the Minister’s desk. A stack of parchment and an ashtray was on the table and they all clutched thick cigars that puffed out light blue smoke when they spoke.

“Ah, Winky,” greeted Tiberius, sitting up in his chair. “We’ve been waiting for you. How did it go?”

Crockett briefly smiled, pleased to at least have some good news. “We won.”

A whoop went around the office. Seamus Dawson shook Jack Lament’s hand, patting him heartily on the back. Matt Lament lit another cigar, kicked his feet up onto the table, and lifted his bowler hat in the direction of the moving poster pasted to the wall. On it, Natalie Malfoy waved back at him. Rabastan and Tiberius exchanged a glittering look before Tiberius popped the question.

“Did she catch the Snitch?”

“Uh. . . .”

Tiberius unsteepled his fingers and leaned forward. “Winky. . . .”

“She, well, the word is the Snitch got stuck in her robes and nobody knew, not even her, for a while.”

“What?” laughed Rabastan, blowing out a long puff of blue smoke. “How did she not know?”

Crockett fixed his gaze on Tiberius, hoping the Minister would decide to step in with the latest developments over Natalie acting like a child. “She took a Bludger to the ribs, sir. Broke two of them and punctured her lungs.”

Silence swept through the room as looks were exchanged.

Tiberius rose to his feet, pushed his chair in and gripped the back of it. “Is she at St. Mungo’s? How bad is it?”

“Fabienne Lestrange and Lancelot Prewett are on site, they just went to check her out but she refuses to leave the stadium. The Mediwizards aren’t too pleased about it all. . . .”

Tiberius muttered something under his breath. Jack Lament groaned, running a hand through his thinning hair. The man looked like he’d aged ten years since the tournament began. Crockett wondered if he knew what he was getting everyone into when he recruited Natalie.

“I’ll send Abraxas to bring her to the Manor, at least, if she refuses to go to St. Mungo’s,” said Tiberius with finality. It was clear the Minister was relieved he had a clear excuse to wield his authority. “My mother is impatient to see her and Fabienne can treat her there as well. They’ve got a break for. . . .”

“A few days,” said Jack Lament. “The Semi-Final date is set for April fourteenth. But they’ll have plenty of practice trainings before the match.”

“April fourteenth is a while away. I don’t see a need to cater to this living in the stadium whim anymore. She can stay at the Manor between practices, it’ll be the safest place. Ian Rowle has started insisting he can’t keep his top Aurors guarding the stadium all day, everyday. And quite frankly, I’m tired of hearing it from him.”

“We all are,” said Matt Lament with a grin. "Rowle's got a big storm coming once the Final rolls around though."

“That settles that, then,” Tiberius looked pleased. “Rabastan, how’s the Prophet coming along?”

Rabastan Lestrange smiled. “I had Jonathan Shaw and Lloyd Avery at the match. They’ve got their instructions. . . actually, gentlemen, if you’d wait a few seconds. . . .” Rabastan held up his pocket watch and silently counted down until there was a small pop. A piece of parchment with a black and white moving photograph appeared on the table in front of him.

“Bloody hell,” Rabastan softly exclaimed. “This is going to be our best seller!” He held up the parchment for all to see. Underneath a working headline that stated “Kiss the Cup Goodbye, Portugal!” was a photograph of a stone-faced Natalie Malfoy, it depicted her sliding off her broom and raising the golden Snitch with a bloody kiss on it directly to the camera.

“Merlin’s beard,” chuckled Jack Lament, taking a long draw from his cigar and puffing out a cloud of smoke as laughter circled the room. 

Amusement was evident on Seamus Dawson’s face but his title demanded seriousness. “Portugal is going to give us hell for that for years.”

“It’s worth it,” said Matt Lament with a grin, gesturing for Rabastan to slide the parchment over for a better look. “It’s brilliant. This’ll drive the public wild. Whoever took this photograph deserves a raise.”

Crockett took a step closer to inspect it, his eyes landing on the tiny Snitch in the photograph. Matt Lament voiced exactly what Crockett was thinking. 

“Where’s that Snitch? It’s going to be worth a fortune, especially once this is published.”

“Winky,” Tiberius addressed the agent and smiled, not needing to say anything else.

Crockett tipped his hat to the Minister of Magic, “on it.” He gave the others present a polite nod and departed from the office.

Tiberius looked around at his most important associates at the moment. “Then I believe the last order of business tonight is where the Final is held.”

“They still have to beat whoever wins the U.S. match,” Jack Lament reminded the room, “that should be taking place shortly. Near a place called Amarillo, Texas, I believe.”

“Of course,” his brother waved a hand, pushing the Prophet draft back to Rabastan and flipping through the stack parchment on the table. “I’ve already had Seymour Mulciber on this project for a few weeks now. Switzerland would be the ideal locale for the Cup Final. . . for a variety of reasons.”

“The economic ones, mostly,” cracked Seamus Dawson and a chuckle ran through the room. They all had considerable gains riding upon the English national team, and the Swiss Ministry had a history of being rather lenient when it came to enforcing international wizarding statutes that had to do with finances.

“No comment there, Seamus,” Matt’s lips twitched into a smile. “The Swiss Minister is also a member of the ICWQC and I’m sure he would have no objections to hosting the Final. Mulciber has even selected the exact spot. An isolated village called Lauterbrunnen. . . .”


	25. February 1946: Are You Mad?

“A STADIUM. A QUIDDITCH STADIUM. YOU OUGHT TO SEE YOURSELF. I THOUGHT YOU HAD MORE SENSE IN THAT HEAD OF YOURS. LIVING THERE FOR A MONTH! AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR HAIR? WHAT’S GOTTEN INTO YOU?”

Natalie shot Abraxas a glare. Domitia’s fury was one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to leave the stadium after the match. The instant they stepped into the Malfoy Manor, Domitia had exploded.

“Mother, please,” Tiberius had also met them in the entrance hall. He placed a hand on Domitia’s shoulder and attempted to calm her down. “Let Fabienne finish healing your granddaughter, and then you can scold her all you like.”

“She looks perfectly alright to me!” snapped Domitia, shaking her son’s hand away.

Natalie grunted, stepped past Domitia and Tiberius and began to walk gingerly down the hallway. The Mediwizards had mended her ribs just fine. Her lung was evidently still punctured, as she was reminded by the need to cough up what felt like heavy phlegm in the back of her throat. The hallway spun around her, making everything blurry. 

“Natalie, at least let me conjure a stretcher-” Fabienne Lestrange was still bugging her. She’d traveled back with them to the Malfoy Manor, to Natalie’s displeasure. All the Healers had done was annoy her. They pleaded and cajoled with her in increasingly ridiculous fashions. And of course Domitia continued to nag her.

“REALLY, NATALIE? HIDING OUT IN THE STADIUM? NOT A WORD FROM YOU AT ALL — I’M REDUCED TO HAVING TO READ THE PROPHET JUST TO MAKE SURE MY OWN GRANDDAUGHTER IS STILL _ALIVE_ -”  
“Mother,” sighed Tiberius.

“Don’t ‘mother’ me, Tiberius!” barked Domitia. “Can’t you see I’ve got to ‘mother’ my idiotic granddaughter at the moment!”

The words struck a chord within her. Natalie’s slow footsteps faltered, she pulled herself away from Fabienne Lestrange for the umpteenth time. She didn’t want anyone touching her. There were always too many questions after. Her eyes flicked to the wall, where the portrait of Theia Malfoy had once hung. The space remained empty.  _ Good. _

She had made it to the stairs. Wiping away the blood that had risen to her lips, she sank down, settling herself on the bottom step and pondering the best way to get upstairs. She could attempt to apparate. Though in her state that would be difficult, and she could risk splinching. She could morph into her animagus form, though that had the same problems. A cough wracked her again, shattering her thoughts. It made her wince, and she pressed a hand to her chest. There was a flash of motion nearby and she peered over. Abraxas had sat on the stairs beside her.

“I’ve got something important to tell you,” he said. 

She blinked, wondering what could be so important that he had to let her know right this instant.

“You’re being tremendously stupid right now,” he stated with finality.

Natalie scowled. She wanted to hit him but instead started coughing again. She doubted splinching would hurt more than the pressure she felt in her lungs at the moment so she closed her eyes and attempted to concentrate on her bedroom upstairs.

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” she heard Tiberius announce. Next thing she knew, she was floating away into blackness.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Natalie opened her eyes and found herself staring at a ceiling. She sucked in a breath and closed her eyes again to enjoy how painless it was. Then she snapped them open, a thread of panic running through her. She didn’t know where she was.

Pushing herself up, she blearily looked around. She was in her room at the Malfoy Manor. With a huff, she sank back against the mass of pillows behind her. Bright sunlight crept in the windows from behind the curtains, and she briefly wondered what time it was.

“Ugh,” she groaned and ran a hand through her short hair. “Jubbal!” she called her favorite house-elf.

There was a small crack and the little elf appeared. “Yes, Mistress?”

“Where is everyone?” she asked, “also, what day is it?”

“It is the third of February, Mistress. The Masters Malfoys and the Mistress Domitia are in the lounge. Mistress Melania is out shopping-”

She interrupted the elf. “Where is she shopping?”

“Diagon Alley-”

“Excellent,” said Natalie, doing one last inspection of her faculties before jumping up out of bed. The Healers must have fixed her all up once she’d apparated upstairs. “Get me some fresh robes to wear. Something boring. . . non-distinct. I don’t want to be recognized.”

Jubbal hesitated, “Mistress Domitia asked Jubbal not to let the young Mistress leave the house, and to inform Mistress Domitia when she woke-”

“I’ve got an important errand to run, don’t tell her I’m up,” said Natalie. She stalked across the room and opened the door to the adjoining bathroom. Glancing back at the indecisive elf, she called, “Jubbal, Domitia is a Burke. She married into the Malfoy family. I’m a direct descendant of Brutus Malfoy and Madinia Dee.”

With a squeak, the elf hurried off into her closet. Pleased the trick had worked, Natalie stepped into the bathroom and decided to soak in the tub for a moment, to think over her plans for the day.

It was February third. She needed to get her wand back. She knew Tom bloody Riddle still had it, and he obviously didn’t feel overcome by generosity to return it to her. The bastard. He was clearly keeping hold of it to force her to come to him. She’d managed to live without it well enough at the stadium, with the team constantly around her and the assortment of elves to tend to their needs — which only consisted of Quidditch. Though Ricky probably could have used a good curse or two. 

She shook her head as she stripped off the Quidditch robes she still wore and turned on the taps in the smooth quartz bathtub built into the floor. An assortment of soapy, scented water poured out, filling the tub. The tub itself was twice the size of a Muggle automobile, and just deep enough to allow her to sit in it with her head resting along the edge. Natalie lowered herself into the tub and sat brooding in the warm water. There was much to think about. Like if Tom Riddle was mad at her. She wasn’t sure if she was still mad at him either, all she knew was that she had a burning desire to see him before her mind imploded on itself.

Jubbal entered with the robes she had requested, placing them upon the polished wooden bench in the middle of the bathroom. The elf’s return made her thoughts shift from Tom Riddle back to Quidditch. Shooting up in the tub so that water sloshed over the sides, she stared at the elf and demanded,

“Jubbal, who won the U.S. - Mongolia match?” 

“The United States won the match, Mistress.”

Natalie sank back into the tub and stared up at the Malfoy family crest embossed on the ceiling. The U.S. was the higher seed overall, which meant the English would have to travel to America for the game. They’d lack the advantage of playing on their home pitch, and she’d have to deal with the time zone difference, which always seemed to aggravate her, regardless of how many potions Dent forced down her throat for it. 

“I wonder where we’ll be playing them.”

“The United States plays in northeast Texas, Mistress. Jubbal believes it is near a place called Amarillo.”

Natalie stared at the elf, she had not expected to receive an answer. Jubbal squeaked under her gaze and the elf tugged its floppy ears over its eyes. “Jubbal overheard the Master Malfoy, the Minister Master Malfoy, speaking about it.”

“I see,” she mused and her stomach growled. “Get me something to eat and a kettle of tea,” she said and the elf vanished with a bow and a pop.

By the time the elf reappeared with a platter of sandwiches and the tea, Natalie had climbed out of the tub and dressed. She stood surveying herself in the mirror on the wall opposing the tub. Dragging a hand through her hair, she wondered if the robes and the short hair would be a sufficient disguise for what she intended to be a quick trip through Diagon and Knockturn Alleys.

“Jubbal, can you make the robes. . . more modest. And add a hood,” she said. The elf bowed and snapped its fingers. The plain robes grew thicker and looser, a wide hood fell onto her back, until they were the most boring thing she’d ever laid eyes on, certainly nothing you would expect a world-famous Quidditch player to wear. 

“How do I look?” she asked the elf, grabbing a sandwich and taking several bites in quick succession. 

The elf blinked, unsure how to answer. “Mistress looks delightful, as always-”

“No, I mean, would you recognize me in the streets of Diagon Alley if you weren’t already looking for me?”

“Jubbal isn’t sure-”

“Alright, nevermind,” she said, pouring a cup of tea and draining it within seconds. She didn’t have her wand, so altering her appearance would be tricky. She could always try, of course. Holding up one hand, she studied her palm. After a moment, a crackle of silver lightning bolted between her fingers. But the elf let out a gasp and Natalie’s concentration broke. 

“Dammit,” she hissed, tossing the remainder of the sandwich back onto the platter. She looked at the elf in the mirror. “Can you change my hair color?”

Jubbal shuffled in confusion. “Jubbal thinks she can, yes, but-”

“Nevermind that. Make me a brunette, and don’t tell my grandmother.”

The elf snapped its fingers and Natalie watched her short blonde hair turn a dark brown.

“Well done,” Natalie beamed and patted the elf’s head, Jubbal’s pointy face blushed. “I’m off to run errands. Don’t tell anyone I’ve gone. I’ll be back soon.”

Leaving the elf nodding, Natalie turned and disapparated. 

She appeared in the entrance of Diagon Alley, just on the other side of the Leaky Cauldron. The Alley was fairly crowded, as it was midday on a Sunday. Setting off at a brisk walk, Natalie enjoyed the anonymity the drab robes and dark hair gave her. That was, until a sudden craving for Fortescue’s ice cream struck her and she realized she’d forgotten something. She hadn’t taken any gold with her. She could go to Gringotts, obviously. But the goblins would probably take one look at her with dark hair and throw her out of the bank if she insisted she was Natalie Malfoy.

“Bloody fuck,” she grumbled to herself, standing outside Fortescue’s ice cream parlor and enviously watching customers lick their ice cream. Dent couldn’t get mad at her for eating ice cream after winning the Quarterfinal match while injured. And they didn’t have practice until tomorrow-

“Language, love. You’ve got too pretty a face to say words like that.” 

Glancing over, her eyes landed on a dark-haired wizard who was passing by. He looked familiar. She scanned him over and it clicked. He was a Black. She’d seen him at Abraxas’s wedding and the Christmas party, and even spoken to him a few times, but her mind was blanking on his name. She knew he was one of the older brothers of Cassiopeia and Callidora Black.

Her blatant staring caused him to stop and approach her with a smug, flirtatious smile on his face, which just proved his ancestry further. The Black family was full of attractive, arrogant little gits. Which, she supposed, was why the Malfoys got along with them so well.

“You’re not the first witch to be so charmed by my looks,” he gloated, stretching out a hand to pick hers up and lay a kiss on it. She stepped away from him to avoid the contact, mind churning as she tried to recall his first name. Orion? No. That was his cousin. Cygnus? No. That was his brother. 

“Alphard!” she exclaimed when it struck her. “That’s it.”

He stared. “How’d you-”

“It’s me!” she said, glancing around to see if anyone had spotted them. A pair of witches heading out of Fortescue’s with towering cones of caramel fudge brownie ice cream gave them a curious look and then giggled to each other. She dropped her voice and stepped closer to Alphard. “Natalie.”

“Natalie? What? Wait, Natalie Malfoy?” he said incredulously. “What happened to your hair? And why are you dressed like a bloody prude?”

“I didn’t want to be recognized.”

“Bloody hell. I thought you were some fit but boring witch who was upset about not being able to get ice cream.”

“I am a fit witch upset about not being able to get ice cream. Can’t say anything about the boring part though. I’ve no gold with me and I’ve. . . misplaced my wand so I can’t change my hair back to go to Gringotts and. . . yeah. . . .”

A grin slowly unfurled over his face and he started to laugh. “The wealthiest Quidditch player in the world, stuck in Diagon Alley undercover without her wand, with no gold to get ice cream. . . .”

Natalie scowled but eventually sighed and laughed along with him until they were both doubled over, shaking with laughter.

“Okay, okay,” she breathed, happy her ribs had fully healed else it would have been a rather painful experience. “Undercover be damned. Can you change my hair back to normal so I can go to Gringotts?”

Alphard looked her over for a moment. “I can just buy you an ice cream, Natalie. I’m sure it’d be much easier, and you can stay. . . undercover.”

She blinked then sheepishly smiled. “Can you? I’ll trade you an autograph.”

“C’mon,” he offered her his arm. “And I don’t need your autograph.”

She elected to take his arm, bracing herself for the shock that usually followed. Except he didn’t flinch or jump at all. He gave her a grin, and she knew he must have experienced it before. She suspected it had been at Abraxas’s wedding. “You don’t?”

“Nope. Already have it. Got it when Winky Crockett made you give out autographs your first year of Hogwarts.”

“What? You kept it?” she asked in astonishment as they stepped into Fortescue’s. The ice cream parlor was full of witches and wizards taking a break from their shopping to indulge in the rich, magical flavors. They moved to take their place in line behind an elderly couple with graying hair.

“To be honest, I forgot I had it,” said Alphard. “Found it stuck in my old Hogwarts trunk about the same time there were rumors going around you had signed with the Tornadoes.”

“I didn't know we overlapped at Hogwarts.”

“We did, for a bit. I’m five years older,” he grinned down at her. “You know, you probably could have strolled in here and gotten free ice cream if you weren’t disguised. Aren’t you being sponsored by this place?”

“Yeah, I am,” she grumbled. 

“Want me to start acting like a star-struck fan?”

“Do not! I’ll. . .” she tried to think of the worst thing you could threaten a Black with. “I’ll tell your mother you were shaming the family name.”

“Oh no, how terrifying,” Alphard laughed, “she’d probably ask if we’ve gotten engaged.”

Natalie started, giving him a look. “Engaged? What?”

“You haven’t heard? There’s all sorts of rumors flying about that my mother would love for me to marry a nice, respectable pureblood like you. Your grandmother was apparently partial to it.”

“I. . . I’m dating someone. My grandmother knows that,” said Natalie and she felt her blood quicken as anger erupted in her stomach. They’d reached the front of the line and she blandly gave her order of a butterbeer frappe to Florean himself, who fortunately did not recognize her. Alphard requested the same.

“And yet I’m the one buying you ice cream,” joked Alphard, laying the coins down on the counter.

“We’re. . . in a fight,” she snapped, managing to shoot a smile at Florean when he handed them their ice cream. She took a long sip of the frappe, but it did nothing to improve her mood. She was mad. There was no going back. She briefly touched the ring under her robes and it gave a little pulse, sending tendrils of fire through her skin. They settled in her stomach and seemed to mingle with the pulsing fury that had been stirred up.

The crowded ice cream shop suddenly seemed very claustrophobic, as if the walls were closing in around her. She detached her arm from Alphard’s and turned, heading back outside.

“Thanks for the ice cream,” she said as they stepped into the bustling Alley. The weather was turning gray, the sun had vanished behind massing clouds. “I’ve got to go retrieve my wand.”

“That’d be useful,” he said, then gave her a startled look. “Um, Natalie, your hair. . . .”

Tugging at a strand, she realized the dark brown had vanished. It had returned to her usual platinum blonde. A wave of anger rolled through her and sparks flashed along the fingers clutching her hair — house-elf magic was supposed to be extremely strong, not wear off after less than an hour. . . .

“Bloody hell,” she mumbled, dropping her hair and shaking her head.

“Want me to change it back?”

“It won’t be any use,” she said, trying to adopt a tone that would indicate she wished him to leave her alone. “I’ve got to be off, though.”

Alphard grinned and gave her a salute. “Good luck, then. See you around.”

She watched him retreat through the crowds of Diagon Alley before throwing up her hood and storming in the opposite direction, towards Knockturn Alley. The air seemed to crackle around her as she dashed through the masses of witches and wizards, who, thankfully, all managed to get out of her way in time.

But she hadn’t gotten more than a few yards when someone stepped in front of her, blocking her path. She stopped short and found herself glaring at a wizard who couldn’t be more than twenty-five or twenty-six years old. He had an awed look on his face, and she noticed he had the national team logo pinned onto his robes. 

“Hi,” he said with a nervous smile. “I’m Gerard. I’m a huge fan. . . er, uh, I can’t believe I’m running into you-”

“I can’t either,” she said under her breath, quickly glancing around. Others were starting to look in their direction. Eyes and fingers flew towards her, her name rippling through the crowd. There were several gasps, and someone screamed. 

“Uh, hi,” she said to the wizard blocking her path, trying not to sound too panicky. Once upon a time she could stroll through Diagon Alley without causing a mob to form.

“Going anywhere in particular?” the wizard asked, a goofy grin on his face now. A little girl burst from the crowd, sprinted towards them and ran a hand over the hem of Natalie’s robes as if they were a good luck charm. Natalie flinched as the girl let out a yelp and scrambled away, clutching at her hand in astonishment.

“Shit, what the fuck,” she muttered, her skin was crawling with what she was sure was not anything pleasant given the twisted knot of panic and anger that spun about her insides. 

“Where’d you say?” asked the wizard.

“Uh,” Natalie hastily looked around over the growing mob. “Uh, Bulstrode’s!” she nearly shouted it upon sighting the familiar store. It was close by, beckoning her to safety. “C’mon,” she looped her arm through the wizard’s and dragged him along with her towards Bulstrode’s Befittings. “You can come with me, I guess. Lovely weather we’re having at the moment, right?” she gestured up at the sky filled with dark gray clouds, using the wizard to help shove her way through the crowd.

Gerard, as expected, was having trouble remembering how to speak. Her anger and panic likely amped up her energy, so the poor bloke probably felt like he was getting struck by a curse.

“It’s. . . ah, yes. . . lovely,” he said weakly after a moment.

“Good, good,” she said, more pleased that the crowd skittered away from her, allowing her to pass by freely. They were almost at Bulstrode’s. A group of young witches stood outside the shop, shooting curious glances at them and whispering behind their fingers to each other. A witch wearing employee robes had stepped out of Slug and Jiggers and was gawking at her, and two little boys playing with a dog had started pointing and shrieking while their dog howled. The entire Alley seemed to have descended into complete chaos. Taking a long slurp of her frappe just to have something to distract herself with, she pulled the wizard into the store and directed him towards the nearest chair. He sat down heavily, looking dazed.

“Natalie!” a voice called, and Quinn Bulstrode appeared beside her. “What are you doing here? And  _ what  _ are you wearing?”

Panting, Natalie dropped her hood and looked around before responding, glad the shop was nearly empty. Only a mother and her small son were getting fitted for robes, and, to her surprise, Melania Malfoy stood near Quinn, a bag in hand as though she were about to leave. Natalie had completely forgotten that she had intended to find Melania on her trip to Diagon Alley.

“Natalie?” Melania looked startled to see her. “I thought you were injured?”

The little boy started jumping up and down as a magical tape attempted to measure his shoulders. “Mummy, mummy, that’s-”

“Don’t point, Freddie, it’s rude,” the mother pushed her son’s hand down but shot an interested look over at them.

“I’ll be right with you, Mrs. Friedman,” called Quinn before she glanced between Natalie and Melania. “What’s going on?”

“Yes,” Melania raised an eyebrow, giving Natalie a concerned look. “What is going on?”

Natalie took a long drink of her frappe before responding, well aware the mother and son were intently eavesdropping. “I heard you were out shopping and planned to visit,” she said, dragging a hand through her hair and feeling a crackle. “I  _ was _ . . . disguised, and I was heading to, uh, to see Tom, but. . . I got. . . sidetracked.”

Quinn glanced at Gerard, who was slumped in the chair between them, eyes glassy and jaw hanging open. “Who’s this bloke?”

“He stepped in front of me and started talking to me. . . . This was the closest place.”

“So you. . . you dragged him with you to my shop?”

“I thought it was your parents’ shop.”

Quinn looked over at the mother and son and lowered her voice. “Natalie, why does it look like you cursed him?”

“I didn’t,” she hissed, clutching her frappe tightly. Her whole body felt warm and tingly, and she could still hear the whispers and shouts outside. The two boys who had been playing with their dog pressed their noses to the windows of the shop. The group of witches were more casual about peering in, pretending to be looking at a map. “I. . . I panicked. He got in my way at a bad time.”

“He. . . Natalie, he’s right here. He can hear-”

“No, he can’t. Trust me, his brain is practically fried.”

“Why don’t we head to the back and Quinn can give you something more. . . appropriate to wear?” suggested Melania with a gesture to the plain robes Natalie wore. Glancing down, she was horrified to realize that the robes Jubbal had modified were beginning to unravel by themselves, black threads were peeling away as if being burned off. She could see tiny silver bolts darting all over them.

“Brilliant idea,” said Natalie and she jumped towards the double saloon doors, Quinn and Melania on her heels. They burst into the back of the shop and Quinn started flicking her wand through the endless rows of robes, dresses, and other garments.

“Nobody knows I left the house,” Natalie admitted to Melania, who was still looking at her with concern. “I’m going to see Tom. The bastard has my wand and hasn’t felt nice enough to return it to me.”

Melania laughed and said nothing.

“Don’t tell my grandmother,” said Natalie, “or uncle, or even Abraxas, that I left.”

Melania pursed her lips, “Natalie. . . .”

“Please?” she offered, “I’ve healed all fine. There’s nothing for them to be worried about.”

“Alright,” Melania relented. “I won’t mention it.”

“Natalie, do you want anything in particular?” asked Quinn. “And I can put a Reinforcing Charm on them so hopefully they won’t fall apart like whatever the shit you’re wearing now did.”

Natalie pressed a hand to her forehead and restrained a laugh. Everything seemed five times funnier than usual. “Well, I’m bloody pissed and my clothes are burning themselves off and I’m probably about to get in a row with my boyfriend, so. . . .”

Quinn muttered, “maybe I won’t charm them so you can just shag him and save everyone the headache.”

“I heard that.”

“Oops,” said Quinn, not sounding sorry at all, and she waved her wand. A set of silky, dark gray robes with elaborate silver hemming around the collar and sleeves came flying towards Natalie. She snatched them out of the air and ran an eye over them. 

“They’ll do,” she said and Quinn pointed her wand at her. The plain robes that were now down to their last threads morphed seamlessly into the sharp gray ones. Another wave of her wand and it felt like a suit of armor clapped itself over Natalie, before the feeling vanished. The three witches stared at the robes, waiting to see if they would fall apart. 

When they did not, Natalie sighed. “Thanks, Quinn.”

She waved a hand, “you can go out the back door. It leads right into Knockturn. Unless you want to say goodbye to that bloke you dragged into this.”

“Oh,” Natalie let out a strangled laugh, “um. . . poor kid. He’ll be fine. . . Melania, I’ll see you soon.”

“Be careful,” warned Melania.

“I am,” she said, and saluted the two before she strolled through the shop and slipped out the back door, stepping into the comforting darkness of Knockturn Alley.

Knockturn Alley was slightly less crowded than Diagon, people moved faster here and made less eye contact, which was how she thought it ought to be. Yet they still felt the need to send stares her way. Thunder rumbled overheard as she ducked around a wizard touting a tiny purple cushion with a small gold ball nestled on it and approached Borgin and Burkes.

A thought suddenly striking her, she wheeled back around, nearly tripping over a witch with gray hair down to her knees, to find the wizard with the purple cushion.

“Hey!” she called, and he turned. He had a ratty face and a receding hairline, and she immediately hated him. She gestured at the cushion he carried. “What is that?”

“The lucky Snitch!” he cried and turned the cushion to show the crude drawing of red lips on it. It looked nothing like the Snitch she had handed to Jonathan Shaw after the match. “Kissed by Natalie Malfoy in the Portugal Quarterfinal match! She gave it to me herself, but I’ll give it to you for a thousand Galleons, a real bargain of a price-”

With a scoff, Natalie knocked the cushion out of his hands, desperately wishing she had her wand to vanish it. But the instant it hit the ground, the fake Snitch exploded into puffs of smoke.

“Are you mad?!” the man yelped, dropping to the ground to swipe at the smoke in vain.

“Pissed, actually,” she said, reaching out to pull him up to face her. Before she could grab hold of him, a spark flew from her finger-tips and melted into his skin. A whitish light seemed to shimmer in his veins, giving him an eerie glow as she made eye contact with him. Fear erupted in his watery eyes and there was a split second as recognition flashed across his face, before Natalie, shocked by the unbidden release of her energy, dropped her hand and the wizard crumpled to the ground in a motionless heap. The glow faded from his skin, leaving him pale and lifeless. Natalie looked around and the onlookers who had stopped to watch scurried off. 

“Shit,” she mumbled, brushing her hands against the gray robes and hurrying into Borgin and Burkes. The bell chimed her arrival and she tugged the door shut behind her before practically bowling over a customer. Caractacus Burke was not present. His younger business partner, Erasmus Borgin, whom she had met a few times, stood behind the counter today.

“Where is he?” she snapped at Borgin, who looked absolutely terrified at her appearance. His oily dark hair swung over his face, as though trying to hide.

“Mr. Burke does not work on Sundays-”

“Not Burke — Tom Riddle!”

“Running an errand,” said Borgin, an eye flashing towards the disgruntled customer she had almost knocked over. The customer elected to take his business elsewhere, and Borgin shot an accusatory look at her before it melted into subservience. “Mr. Burke sent him to-”

Natalie had forgotten she still held the frappe from Fortescue’s. She slammed it down on the counter between her and Borgin, and it exploded, sending the remnants of her butterbeer frappe everywhere. 

“When is he coming back?” she snarled.

A glob of the butterbeer frappe had landed directly on Borgin’s nose. He slowly wiped it away and avoided looking at her. The shop’s bell chimed, his eyes drifted past her and he had the look of a man who had just dumped his problems onto someone else.

“Tom, Mr. Burke said you could have the rest of the day off when you returned,” Borgin hurriedly said. “His niece here is rather eager to see you.”

Natalie whirled around to land eyes on Tom Riddle for the first time since December. He watched her with a stoic expression, standing quietly near the door in pure black robes. It was tremendously rude of him, she thought, to look that handsome when she was this furious.

She stalked across the shop, leaving the mess of butterbeer ice cream for Borgin to deal with. “Where’s my wand?”

Lord Voldemort regarded her with cool eyes, though she caught a streak of red within them as lightning flashed across the sky outside, illuminating the dim interior of the shop. He did not answer. Instead, he turned and walked back out. Natalie bolted after him.

Fat raindrops had begun to fall, sending shoppers fleeing indoors. The wizard with the fraudulent Snitch remained in a heap on the cobblestones, not having moved. She hoped he was just unconscious as she stepped over him, hurrying to follow Tom. He seemed to be heading deeper into Knockturn Alley. 

“Where are you going?” she finally called when they’d reached the outskirts of the magical alley.

As if in response, he turned and grabbed her by the sleeve, pulling her along after him.

“Where-” she repeated but he turned again and she was sucked away into the twisting tube of Apparation.

They appeared in the entrance hall of her Irish mansion. She stumbled upon landing, falling into Tom. He caught her, gripping her tightly by the wrist and holding her before him. Her breath caught in her throat as they glanced into each other’s eyes for the first time in over a month. It felt like the sharp cracking of a joint that then brought incredible relief from an unknown pressure. It washed over her and she found herself falling into him again, but this time she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face into his chest. He returned the hug, holding her against him as if she were about to blow away in a gust of wind.

She had no idea how long she stood there, listening to the beating of his heart, the ticking of his horcrux hanging around her neck between them, and the low growling of thunder outside.

“So. . .” she found words, “are you mad?”

“You are,” he said.

“I. . . you didn’t answer.”

“Yes. I am.”

“Great,” she mumbled into his robes. They still clung to the other like a lifeline. “We’re both mad.”

“So it seems.”

Silence resumed, broken occasionally by a rumble of thunder. The ticking horcrux had grown to a pulsing that reverberated through both their bodies.

“I broke my ribs,” said Natalie, “and punctured my lung.”

“Neither is surprising.”

“I think I could have killed that man in Knockturn Alley.”

“Also not surprising.”

“It was an accident.”

“It usually is with you.”

“I’m a murderer.”

“There are worse things to be.”

“Like what?”

“Like dead.”

“He could be dead.”

“But you are not,” he tilted her head to look into her eyes again. They stared at each other for an eternity, as thunder crooned outside and the pulsing horcrux sent tingles flashing through them, growing stronger and stronger until he bent down and kissed her. She stood frozen for a heartbeat before kissing him back, leaning up to wrap her arms around his neck as they both deepened the kiss, which was much, much easier than talking. 

He broke away first. She flicked her eyes open and found him staring intently at her. 

“You won.”

“What?” she asked as a wave of calm washed over her. She forgot what they had even been talking about.

“The match,” he said. “You won.”

“Oh, yeah. We won.”

“So you’ll be traveling to America for the Semi-Final.”

“How’d you know?”

He gave her a look as though she had said something so stupid he felt the need to completely change the topic. “Do you not read the articles written about yourself?”

“No. But you do, apparently.”

“The Prophet treats you like a national treasure.”

“Would you say they’re wrong?”

He laughed softly. “Maybe I’ll write them a letter to include how exceedingly arrogant you are too.”

“Well, fuck,” she pressed her forehead to his chest. “Looks like your huge ego is rubbing off on me. I never should have let you sit in my Hogwarts Express compartment our first year.”

“It was  _ I  _ who let  _ you  _ sit in  _ my  _ compartment,” he scoffed and ran a hand over the exact ribs she had broken a few days ago. “Had I known how eager you were to run around getting yourself hurt playing Quidditch, I would have told you to sit somewhere else.”

She glanced up at him and scowled. “I didn’t see the Bludger.”

“You mean you weren’t paying attention.”

“Where’s my wand?” she narrowed her eyes but her hand moved to his pocket. 

“Other one,” he said.

She switched to his other pocket and transferred her wand into her own pocket. “Have you just carried it along with you since December?”

“Yes. It’s taken you quite a while to come get it,” he said with a smirk. 

“You could have come given it to me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“It would have been. . .  _ nice  _ of you.”

“ _ Nice _ of me?”

“Yes,” she said stubbornly, “though I can’t say I would ever attach the word ‘nice’ to any of your other qualities.”

“I can’t say the same for you either,” his hand ran over her former broken ribs again. “I would most definitely attach the word ‘idiotic’ to much of what you do, however.”

She pushed his hand away and glared. “You’re mad about Quidditch.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You brought Quidditch up earlier,” she said and a thought struck her. “Oh, shit!” she stepped out of his embrace and slashed her wand through the air to display the time. It was fast approaching evening. “Bloody hell!”

“What?” he stared at the glowing numbers in confusion.

“I’ve got to get back,” she said, “I wasn’t supposed to be gone this long. No one knows I left the Manor and I want to keep it that way.”

Annoyance briefly flashed across his face, as though she had derailed part of his plans. “Idiotic,” he muttered.

“Why don’t you visit,” she snapped, tucking her wand away and straightening her robes. They were back to being mad at the other. “And bring me a butterbeer frappe from Fortescue’s. I didn’t get to enjoy the last one.”

“If that's what's needed to persuade you to listen to reason,” he said coldly.

She had no idea what he meant, but she knew she was not going to like whatever it was, so she didn’t quite care to inquire further. Shooting him one last glare, she turned and disapparated away.


	26. February 1946: Relationship Scandals, Assault, Murder

“There’s Septimus,” said Natalie, “I like that one. Nice flow to it. Septimus Malfoy.”

“Hm,” Melania mulled over the name. The two witches lounged in the hidden library within the Malfoy Manor, house-elves serving them tea and cookies as they chatted about baby names for the child Melania insisted she and Abraxas would, eventually, have. Natalie was shuffling through an assortment of fan mail that Winky Crockett “didn’t want to deal with” because they were sappy, lovestruck valentines from fans all around the country. She thought they were hilarious.

“Our first thought was Cassius,” said Melania, “after your grandfather.”

“Fair point. . . might be confusing though. People like Slughorn still remember Cassius.”

“Yes, Abraxas brought that up. And then, of course, it could be a girl.”

Natalie allowed a house-elf to refill her cup of tea and swung her legs up onto the couch to stretch out. The team had a long practice that morning, after which Antonin Dolohov had escorted her back to the Malfoy Manor, per Tiberius’s request that she wasn’t supposed to know about. But she had wheedled out of Dolohov that her former desire to live at the stadium was being overriden. 

“Any ideas there?” asked Natalie, laughing to herself at a valentine that erupted with confetti in the shape of tiny golden Snitches. 

“My mother insists if we have a girl we name it after her side of the family, the Blacks,” Melania blushed and nibbled on a cookie. 

“Lots of options there,” said Natalie, remembering her recent encounter with Alphard Black. 

“Yes, but I hope we have a boy. Then we’ll name him after your side of the family.”

“Just don’t name him Brutus,” said Natalie with a shake of her head. “That’s the one Malfoy name I don’t like.”

“No,” agreed Melania with a giggle. “I prefer Nicholas. Or Lucius. Both haven’t been used in a while.”

Natalie handed her cup off to a house-elf so she could lean back against the couch and let her limbs grow limp, leaving the stack of valentines in her lap. With a relaxed sigh she closed her eyes and nodded. “I like those.”

“And what about you, Natalie?”

Natalie’s eyes snapped open and she shot a look at Melania, sitting on the couch opposite the glass-topped coffee table between them. Melania raised her eyebrows. 

“How are you and. . . Tom. . . .”

“He doesn’t like to be called that,” she mumbled, barely loud enough for Melania to hear. Natalie closed her eyes again and sank back into the cushions. “Tiberius had me escorted back here from practice so obviously I am not to be trusted taking care of myself, much less another person.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t have picked such an immature godmother,” teased Melania.

“I’ve got that written in a contract,” Natalie said. “You can’t rescind it.”

She heard Melania sigh. “I suppose we are both getting ahead of ourselves with all this.”

Natalie’s eyes flew open again and she looked across at Melania. The witch was quickly becoming a budding socialite. “Wait, have you heard any rumors about me and Alphard Black?”

“Yes, actually,” said Melania. “I was visiting Druella last week and she mentioned her mother-in-law was trying to convince Alphard to court you.”

Natalie restrained a laugh at the terminology. Druella’s mother-in-law would be Irma Black, Alphard’s own mother. “Did Druella say why Irma is trying to convince him of that?”

Melania shrugged. “Why not? Alphard is Irma’s second eldest son, and she’s very proud to have produced the most Black children of this generation. Now that they’re getting older, she has nothing else to do besides matchmake and read gossip articles.”

“I see,” said Natalie, glancing up at the ornate golden chandelier above them. 

“Why do you ask?”

“I ran into Alphard in Diagon Alley, right before going to Bulstrode’s,” she said, “he mentioned something about it. And about grandmother being partial to it.”

Melania hesitated as if afraid what she was about to say would come out wrong. “I think Domitia is very. . . stressed. . . with everything that’s going on.”

“What do you mean?”

Melania took a cup of tea from a house-elf and sipped it before explaining. “Well, she lost her husband and then her daughter years ago. Her son is the Minister of Magic, her grandson is heading an internationally-renowned company — her grandson who isn’t even twenty-five years old and. . . and her granddaughter is playing for the English national team — you haven’t even been out of Hogwarts for a whole year and you did just get injured in the last match. She has a lot of high profile people to worry about.”

Natalie stared up at the chandelier, “I didn’t think of it like that.”

Melania smiled as if she already knew. “Not to mention all the Triple I business she’s still involved in — worrying about silly stuff like marriage is probably a nice break. Abraxas complains about Russia whenever he has a chance.”

“Yeah, Russia sucks,” Natalie grumbled, thinking about the only match where she hadn’t caught the Snitch.

“Plus you do look very much like your mother, and likely remind her of Theia, so she could be worried you also might run off with a Muggle and she’ll never see you again-”

Natalie made a retching noise. “I would  _ never-”  _ her statement of disgust was interrupted by the library door bouncing open. In strolled a fuming Winky Crockett. His face was as red as his hair, save the pale white scars across his cheek, and he was clutching a stack of what looked like thick parchment and glossy documents. Beside him was Tiberius Malfoy, who looked angrier than Natalie had ever seen him.

Natalie sat up, looking between her agent and her uncle with concern. Anyone who had good news did not walk into a room like that.

“Melania, dear,” Tiberius addressed Abraxas’s wife in a strained voice. “If you could leave us. We’ve some urgent news to discuss with the national team Seeker.”

Melania sent a sharp look at Natalie, who sighed and fell back against the cushions, closing her eyes. She heard Melania murmur a small greeting to Winky, who returned it, before the door clicked shut behind her. There was silence for a minute before Tiberius snapped.

“Sit up,” he demanded, his voice growing closer. Natalie’s eyes shot open and she obeyed, solely because she had never heard him as furious as he was now. She looked at Crockett, wondering what was going on. Winky dumped the pile of parchment he held over the back of the couch. It was a collection of smaller newspapers and tabloids; they knocked aside her pile of fan mail and scattered everywhere.

“Look through them,” said Tiberius, walking around the couch to take the seat Melania had occupied just moments before. He had a smaller stack of glossy parchment under his arm but he did not give it to her. “I’m sure you’ll find some familiar things in them.”

Shuffling through the pile Winky flung at her, a chill ran down her spine. They were mostly celebrity gossip tabloids and there were about a dozen photographs from her excursion to Diagon Alley the other day. Some showed her walking with that bloke Gerard, some showed her with her arm looped through Alphard Black’s, heading into Fortescue’s. Her hair was dark in those, but the headlines stated nonsense about her adopting disguises to fool wizards. These were followed by a shot of her outside Fortescue’s with her hair its usual color, Alphard giving her a worried look. 

“Oh shit,” she muttered.

“Yeah, oh shit is right,” Winky said loudly. “What the hell were you thinking, Natalie? Running off to Diagon Alley — do you even know this bloke?” he snatched up one that showed her arm-in-arm with the starstruck fan outside Bulstrode’s Befittings and waved it in front of her face.

“No,” she said in a quiet voice.

Crockett picked up one showing her with Alphard Black. “Changed your hair, really? All it did was give these gossip tabloids plenty of fodder to jump on you with. Go on, read one. They’re making you into some duplicitous slut who’s in a relationship with multiple wizards. Alphard Black got dragged into this too, so you understand how bloody stupid you’ve been.”

“I’m sure his mother will love that,” she said under her breath then glanced between Tiberius and Crockett. “There’s a story about Webster’s latest sexual conquest every other day in-” she glanced down at one of the tabloids, “in  _ Charmin’ Cheers —  _ so why is this such a big deal?”

Tiberius stood and crossed the room to hand over the parchment he held. She took the stack and skimmed through; they were still celebrity gossip tabloids, but the themes were much more morbid. Someone had gotten pictures of her knocking the cushion with the fake Snitch away from the fraudster in Knockturn Alley, holding her hand out towards him, and of him then collapsing onto the ground. To top it off, there was a shot of her stepping over his motionless body as she ran after Tom Riddle. The headlines and articles all questioned if she was a crazed murderer and ought to be locked up.

“Oh,” the implications dawned on her. She looked up at Tiberius. His face was contorted in an expression of controlled fury.

“Do you know how lucky you are, that we have a say of what gets put in the Prophet?” he asked through gritted teeth. “You go out  _ once _ and give these low-life tabloids a field day. Relationship scandals, assault, murder. None of us even knew you had left this house and returned.”

“So. . . is that bloke dead?” she ventured the question.

“No, lucky for you,” said Tiberius, “he’s in critical condition at St. Mungo’s. I managed to get Fabienne Lestrange to personally take him on under her so we can try to keep this a  _ bit  _ more quiet. But she has no idea what happened to him or how to help him.”

“I don’t know what happened to him,” she insisted, “he was trying to pawn off a fake of the Snitch I kissed. I didn’t mean to — I dunno what happened, it wasn’t intentional-”

“This would have been a lot easier if you had said something as soon as it happened, Natalie!” hissed Crockett. “This isn’t Hogwarts anymore, there are a lot — a bloody lot — more eyes on your every action, with much more drastic consequences.”

“I know that!” she growled.

“No,” said Tiberius, giving her a sharp look. “I don’t believe you do.”

“You can’t just wander off into Diagon Alley, even with some shitty disguise, stroll about with different wizards and then attack another for selling a fake Snitch,” barked Crockett. “Are you bloody mental? The entire wizarding world has its eyes on you!”

“You could at least not shame our family and others, at the very minimum,” Tiberius pointed at one of the tabloids that glittered with photographs of her and Alphard Black. 

She dropped her eyes to the tabloids across her lap and said nothing.

“Natalie, your actions reflect not only on you, but on myself, as Minister of Magic, and on Abraxas and Triple I,” said Tiberius. “Need I remind you of the situation we are currently locked in with Russia, both on the Ministry’s front, and Triple I’s. Scandals amongst anyone boasting the Malfoy name are of no help to our family.” 

“Okay, okay,” she swept up all the tabloids and slammed them into a stack. “So. . . is it fixed?”

“Bloody unbelievable,” muttered Crockett before he tugged out a small piece of parchment from his pocket. “Yes, we’ve managed to patch up your fucking disaster of a trip to Diagon Alley as best we could. You’re going to have to sign this though.” He handed her the parchment and she glanced it over.

“Why?”

“To move one million Galleons from your Gringotts vault and distribute them between the vaults of the owners of all these shitty tabloids to get these photographs and articles removed from circulation.”

Natalie looked between her uncle and her agent. “Is that going to work? They’ve already been published.”

“No one is going to complain about being a hundred thousand Galleons richer,” Tiberius dropped back down to the couch, still looking very angry about the situation. “And you really don’t have any other options.”

“Does the Department know?” she asked, “about the whole. . . Diagon Alley thing. Not the paying off that we’re — that  _ I’m —  _ doing.”

“Yes, everyone knows,” said Tiberius, ignoring the last part of her comment as she scrawled her signature onto the parchment and flung it back at Crockett. “The Laments are not happy, as you can imagine. Fortunately, nobody wants to press charges for your attack on the wizard in Knockturn Alley; he isn’t conscious to do so himself and none of his family have come forward about it. But Ian Rowle did personally come to my office to offer his Auror services to babysit you if it’ll mean we can avoid making the entire country look foolish-”

Crockett slammed a hand on the back of the couch she sat on. “Because you obviously think you can act however you want and expect us all to clean it up for, like some sort of spoiled brat-”

“Enough, Winky,” Tiberius interrupted Crockett’s explosion. He turned to Natalie and she knew she would not like whatever he was about to say. “The Department is suggesting — and it would be unwise to see this as an  _ optional  _ suggestion — that you stay out of the public eye for a bit. Lay low and remain here when you aren’t practicing with the team-”

“I went out  _ once _ ,” she said in annoyance. “Once! It’s not my fault I got mad-”

“Yes, it is!” thundered Crockett. “It literally is your own fault if something pisses you off!”

Natalie ignored his outburst and addressed Tiberius. “So, there won’t be Aurors babysitting me then? I thought Rowle didn’t like having to keep them at the stadium all last month. Why’d he offer them to babysit me?”

“Matt Lament has tasked the Aurors with general team security. There will not be a need to take up Rowle’s offer, but-”

“But Antonin Dolohov will continue to be my babysitter back from practice. I thought his job title was Assistant to the Minister of Magic, not Babysitter to the National Team Seeker.”

“Maybe don’t act like a child and job titles won’t need to be reassigned?” suggested Crockett.

“Shut up, Winky!” she finally cracked under his incessant remarks, jumping to her feet and glaring across the couch at her agent as the newspapers, articles, and fan mail flew all over the room.

“Enough, both of you!” barked Tiberius. He crossed the room to stand at the end of the couch and glared between them. “The matter is settled and, hopefully, the lesson has been learned.”

“And I’m short a million Galleons.”

“Please,” snorted Crockett. “A million Galleons is like ten Sickles to you. And it’s your own bloody fault, so don’t start on that.”

Natalie ignored him again, turning to Tiberius. “I can’t go to my house at all?”

“No,” said Tiberius, “the Department doesn’t want to take any chances. I’m taking responsibility by having you stay here.”

“Then. . . can Tom Riddle visit?”

“Oh, your actual boyfriend?” interjected Crockett. “Not the ones you stroll through Diagon Alley with?”

“Winky, I swear to Merlin you will end up in St. Mungo’s like that fraud from Knockturn Alley.”

Her agent shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Just trying to keep you out of trouble, boss. Mainly, out of Azkaban, at your rate.”

Tiberius sighed, “Riddle can visit. But I am not taking responsibility for any of the frivolous gossip that spins out from this situation.”


	27. February 1946: Just For Some Shepherd's Pie

“So, I hear you and Alphard Black are engaged now. Alphie Black, huh? Didn’t think he was your type. He’s too. . . funny. I thought you liked the serious type.”

Natalie slapped a hand to her face and groaned as Antonin Dolohov grinned at her. He was leaning against the wall outside the team dressing room, waiting to accompany her back to the Malfoy Manor after their practice. 

“And I hear you’ve also already had an affair with some mediocre-looking bloke named Gerard Higginson? Merlin, you move fast.”

Natalie removed her hand from her face. “Oh, that was his full name.”

“Blimey,” whistled Dolohov, “you really only care about what’s important, huh. I’m assuming that would be skills in the bedroom?”

“Yes, exactly,” she sarcastically retorted. “How’d you know?”

“Guess we both look for the same thing.”

“Wow, we’re  _ so  _ similar,” she said, walking past Dolohov and heading towards the front exit. He fell into step beside her. 

“So have you gone through the whole team, then?” Dolohov asked conversationally. “I suspect Webster isn’t that great in bed, which would explain why he’s slept with half the witches in England, but only once.”

“Oi!” a protest came from behind them. Ricky Webster had exited the locker room and overheard their remarks. “I’ll have you know-”

“Shut it, Ricky!” Natalie barked over her shoulder, picking up the pace to avoid a confrontation. Webster had smacked Bludgers, and comments, at her all practice. She was tired of hearing his voice.

“Shut what?” Caddy bounced out of the locker room right behind Webster, confused as ever.

“Malfoy, you’ve still got a chance with this,” yelled Webster, hurrying down the hall to catch up with them.

“Bloody hell, let’s go,” she grabbed Dolohov’s arm and pulled him after her, breaking into a sprint. He laughed and dragged his feet along, being incredibly useless and doing nothing but aggravate her.

“Wait up!” called Webster.

“You’re not helpful,” Natalie muttered to Dolohov and shot a look behind them. When her eyes landed on Ricky, there was a brief flash of light and he tripped, landing heavily on the ground. 

Dolohov sucked in a breath, “woah-”

“Shush,” she said, stepping through the enchanted wall, forcing Dolohov after her. They stumbled out to find Reginald Harlowe smoking a magical cigarette. Tiny broomsticks and Snitches formed out of the exhaled gray smoke and encircled his head. 

“Nice broomsticks,” said Natalie without pausing. 

Harlowe’s gaze shot towards her, “it’s an EcceCig. Smoke takes the shape of your surroundings. Can’t say I’m pleased about it. You lot done? Can I go home?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” she told him as he drew an “X” with his wand through the magical shield surrounding the stadium. Natalie jumped through the cut-out rectangle and dragged Dolohov with her. The instant they stepped outside the shield, she turned and disapparated away with Dolohov on her arm.

When they landed, Natalie finally released her grip on him and stepped away. Dolohov took one look around and groaned.

“Natalie!” he jumped after her. She was already halfway across the pub. “We’re supposed to go to the Manor, not the Leaky Cauldron!”

“Okay,” she said, sliding into a stool at the bar. She patted the empty stool beside her and gestured for him to take it.

He grudgingly obliged, anxiously running a hand through his hair and glancing all around the pub. “You can’t be here-”

“Did you forget the Leaky’s sponsoring me?” she said under her breath, smiling as Tom the bartender hurried over to greet her.

“Natalie! Haven’t seen you in a while now.”

“I know, Tom,” she grinned, “team’s been under strict orders with the Semi-Final coming up and all.”

“Ah, of course,” said Tom, “well it’s lovely to see you, as always. What can I get you?”

Ignoring Dolohov’s insistent tugging on her sleeve to get her attention, she requested the Leaky’s famous shepherd’s pie swimming in gravy for herself, and mulled wine for Dolohov, given it was a rather chilly day. Once Tom bustled away with the order, she snapped her head towards Dolohov.

“What?”

“We can’t be here, I’ve orders from the Minister-” Natalie placed her hand upon his cheek and he fell silent, eyes wide. She could hear his heartbeat speed up and watched his Adam’s apple bob. Patting his cheek, she gave him a warm smile. 

“Then just don’t tell him.”

“I-”

“Shh. I just want some shepherd’s pie.”

Dolohov glanced behind them and surveyed the occupants of the pub. “There are some pretty dodgy characters in here.”

“Well, yeah, it’s the Leaky,” she grinned as Tom returned with her food and Dolohov’s drink that he did not ask for. She slid the drink towards Dolohov and nudged him with her elbow.

“Look, I’m even letting you drink on the job. It’s on me too.”

“You’re not my boss,” he said but took a sip. “Five minutes. Then we leave.”

“Five minutes,” she agreed and dove into the hefty portion of shepherd’s pie. 

She was halfway through it when Dolohov pulled a pocket watch on a gold chain from his robes. “It’s been five minutes.”

Natalie snorted through a mouthful of mashed potatoes and peas. “A pocket watch?”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“Isn’t it a bit. . . old-fashioned?”

“My job is about to be old-fashioned if we don’t get back to the Manor right now.”

“Fine,” she shoveled one last forkful of pie into her mouth and stuck a few gold coins under the trencher. Tom refused to make her pay for anything but she always found a way to leave a few Galleons lying around the Leaky. She checked to see if Dolohov had finished the drink and found that he indeed had. Before she could shoot a comment at him, he grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled her along after him, out of the pub and into the Muggle street on the other side.

“Why’d we have to go this way?” she wrinkled her nose as an enormous Muggle bus sped past, spewing smoke and honking its obnoxious horn.

Dolohov looped his arm through hers, steering her down the sidewalk at a quick pace. “Throws off anyone following us. We’d be expected to go into Diagon Alley instead.”

“Why would someone be following-”

“You need to start thinking differently.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Dolohov laughed as he led her around a corner and onto a narrow side street. Garbage was strewn about the gutter, and the pavement was in dire need of repairs. “Do you actually think I’m just around to make sure you go back to the Manor after practice?”

“Wait — what, are you supposed to be some sort of bodyguard? Does my Uncle think I can’t handle myself?”

“There are other reasons, but yeah.”

“But. . . he  _ knows  _ that I-”

“He knows you can’t control your bloody emotions.”

Natalie scowled, coughing at the awful scent wafting from a sewer they passed. “Well, why you, then?”

“Your Uncle trusts me.”

“We’ve got plenty of Aurors-”

“The Aurors report to Rowle. Your Uncle can’t control Rowle, he’s too old, too used to doing whatever he wants, and can’t wait to retire. He’ll run his mouth to anyone who’ll listen.”

A mangy-looking dog scrambled away from a pile of empty cans as they continued down the street. Natalie looked at Dolohov. “Are you taking me on a tour of the Muggle slums, Antonin?” 

He glanced behind them, dark eyes scouring the street. Tightening his grip on her arm, he turned and disapparated with her.

They landed in the entry hall of the Malfoy Manor. Natalie could still smell the rotten food and unfiltered sewage scents from the Muggle street. Tugging her wand from inside her robes, she pointed it at Dolohov.

_ “Aquamenti _ .” 

Water burst from the tip of her wand and doused him.

“Really?” he spluttered, shaking water from his robes and wiping his wet hair out of his eyes. He pointed his own wand at her and she found herself soaking wet within seconds.

“What the hell, Antonin?” she said in mock aggravation, a jinx already floating into her mind. “How  _ dare  _ you-” she flicked her wand and his robes twisted themselves up to trip him. He hit the floor hard but fell into a roll and flung a counter-jinx back immediately.

Natalie found herself doubled over, laughing uncontrollably from his  _ Rictusempra  _ charm. She just managed to raise her wand to hit him with a Jelly-Legs Jinx before undoing the Tickling Charm he cast. 

“You know I hate this jinx!” he groaned as his legs stuck together and he nearly toppled over again. Muttering the counter-jinx, he raised his wand to continue their playful duel, but both his and Natalie’s wands flew from their hands and sailed down the hallway.

Tom Riddle caught both of them. He looked at them with cool eyes and the same expression one would have upon finding one’s children playing with their own feces.

“Why’d you take my wand, too?” whined Natalie.

“Because you started it,” he said.

“Actually-”

“Actually, you did start it,” said Dolohov.

“Who cares,” no longer interested in the topic once she saw what Lord Voldemort was holding, she pranced towards him, dripping water everywhere. “I didn’t know you were coming to visit today. Bye Antonin!” she called over her shoulder.

“Uh, wait, can I get my wand-”

“Oh, yeah,” she said; Tom Riddle handed Dolohov’s wand over and she tossed it down the hall to him. He waved it and dried himself from her Aquamenti charm. 

“No excursions tomorrow, Miss Seeker.”

“Fine, Mr. Babysitter.”

They watched him roll his eyes and disapparate away. When he vanished with a small pop, Tom glanced down at her.

“Excursions?”

She grinned and wiggled her fingers — drying her robes completely. She held her hand out towards him expectantly. “Stopped by the Leaky.”

“I thought you were banned from going anywhere that was not the stadium or this house.”

“I might be.”

Irritation flashed across his face before he returned her wand and handed over the butterbeer frappe he was carrying. Ignoring his expression, she tucked her wand away into her robes and took a long sip of the frappe. This one tasted much better than the one Alphard Black had bought for her.

“So why are you here?”

“Do I need a specific reason to visit?”

“Well, no, but you had said-”

“You were the one who asked if I was allowed to visit.”

“I know.”

“So why interrogate me when I do choose to visit?”

“Well, now I’m doing it because it’s bothering you.”

“It is not  _ bothering _ me-”

“Yes, it is.”

Their bickering was interrupted by the lounge door opening and Abraxas Malfoy stepping out, a glass of wine in his hand. Soft music drifted out of the lounge, filling the entry hall with a sweet, idyllic tune.

“Ah, I thought I heard an old couple arguing about something ridiculous,” he said with a smirk. 

“Really, where?” asked Natalie, making a great deal of turning around and scanning the empty hallway. 

“Did you just call us an old couple, Abraxas?” Melania called out from inside the lounge.

“Never, love,” said Abraxas before turning back to look at them. “What are you two doing here?”

“I have to be here,” said Natalie, “did you forget?”

Abraxas rolled his eyes before gesturing them forward. “At least come in. Don’t just stand out there.”

They followed Abraxas into the family lounge. It was more comfortably furnished than the study, which was primarily reserved for business affairs. Bookshelves and portraits of Hogwarts, the Ministry, Diagon Alley, and other well known locations in the wizarding world filled the walls. The color scheme, dark greens and brilliant silvers, made it reminiscent of the Slytherin common room. A fireplace roared opposite the door, the only source of light save for a few lit silver sconces. Melania leaned against one of the couches in the center of the room, a glass of dark red wine in her hand. Soft chords floated throughout the room from the magical record player near the fireplace.

“Look who dropped by, love,” Abraxas said to his wife. “I believe they stopped to have a duel in the front hall.”

Melania glanced between Natalie and Tom. “A. . . an actual duel? Or-”

“That was Antonin and I,” said Natalie, strolling over to drop onto the couch opposite Melania.

Abraxas had been about to sip from his own wine glass when he paused. “Why were you and Antonin dueling? And in the front hall of the Manor?”

She took a long drink of her frappe before responding. “He annoyed me.”

“Shocking,” sarcasm filled Abraxas’s voice.

“I’d hardly call it a duel,” said Tom, taking the seat beside Natalie on the couch. “The deadliest curse used was  _ Aquamenti _ .”

“How horrific,” continued Abraxas.

“How horrific,” Natalie adopted a high-pitched voice to mock him.

Abraxas took a sip of wine. “You’re a child.”

“You’re a-” she was cut off by a house-elf appearing in the room with a pop. The elf bowed to her before turning to Abraxas.

“Master Abraxas, Natalie Malfoy’s agent, Winky Crockett, is here.”

“Bring him in here,” said Abraxas. The elf nodded and disappeared. Abraxas sat on the couch opposing Natalie and Tom and raised his eyebrows.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing!” was her instinctive response.

“Really, because now is the time to tell me. Before Crockett comes in and tells me himself.”

Natalie scowled. “I’m not five years old-”

“I just said you were a child.”

“Was that not a joke?”

“Well, it was, but now it’s looking to be true.”

“We don’t even know why Crockett is here-”

Winky Crockett burst into the lounge, led by the now scared-looking house-elf. It seemed bursting into the Malfoy Manor with an angry look on his face was becoming a habit of his.

His furious gaze found Natalie immediately. “Are you incapable of taking anything seriously?”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, pulling her legs up to sit cross-legged on the couch. The record player stopped playing its charming music as tension blossomed within the room.

Winky stormed over and flung a piece of glossy parchment at her. She snatched it from the air. It was clearly a draft of what would become an article in some gossipy tabloid. A handwritten working headline stated, “Natalie Malfoy Spotted Moving Onto Her Next Conquest?!” above an amateur photograph of her placing a hand on Antonin Dolohov’s cheek at the Leaky Cauldron.

She dropped the parchment and looked up at Crockett. “I thought we paid the tabloids off!”

“Yeah — for the  _ last  _ scandal you caused. What the hell, Natalie?” barked Crockett, “do you not understand what staying out of the public eye means? And what did you do — snog Antonin to convince him to go with you? He’s supposed to see you back here from practice, not go on little adventures with you!”

“It was just the Leaky-”

“That doesn’t matter! Did you ever consider that maybe Tiberius would no longer want Antonin working as his assistant if he knew Antonin let you convince him to go gallivanting all over the wizarding world, when he was supposed to be keeping an eye on you?”

Natalie dropped her gaze to her frappe. She had not considered that possibility. Across the room, Abraxas let out a sigh.

“That’s about what I expected,” said Crockett.

“Okay,” said Natalie, straightening up and waving the parchment about until Voldemort snatched it from her grasp in annoyance. “Where did you even get this?”

“I happened to be passing through the Leaky. I suppose I only missed you by a few minutes. Tom the bartender gave it to me; said he took it off a customer who had asked him for any dirt on you.”

“So it probably won’t get published then?” asked Natalie.

“Who knows,” said Crockett. “But I think you’re missing the point here.”

“Well, if it doesn’t get published then who cares? I can just donate a load of gold to the Leaky as thanks-”

“Are you sure this is you?” said Tom, holding up the parchment. “The photograph is terribly blurred. Whoever took this obviously isn’t a professional reporter.”

Natalie whipped her head over to stare at Crockett. “Yeah, Winky, are you sure that’s even me?”

“I  _ know _ it’s you, Natalie, you’ve just admitted you were there!” Crockett said with fury, “again, you’re missing the point-”

“No, no,” she said loudly, “I refuse to believe that my uncle would believe that some crackpot photograph of two people at a pub is his niece and his assistant, when the Head Auror watched us leave the stadium and my boyfriend and my cousin both watched us arrive here.”

Crockett looked thunderous. “Natalie, the  _ point _ is that you went to the Leaky Cauldron when you are under very specific orders — not just from your uncle and me, but from the entire Department of Magical Sports and Games, the entire  _ Ministry of Magic _ — to  _ not  _ be seen in public.”

She shared a look with Tom Riddle before very innocently saying, “but Winky, I wasn’t seen in public.”

Fuming, Crockett looked over at Abraxas, who had covered his face with a hand in response to Natalie’s statement. “Abraxas. . . !”

Abraxas stood and crossed the room. He beckoned for the parchment and Lord Voldemort handed it over. Inspecting it closely, he shrugged before tearing it in half right in front of them.

Crockett made a strangled noise. “Seriously?”

“It didn’t look like my cousin,” he said, moving towards the fireplace and dropping the parchment into it, where the flames leapt to consume it.

Running a hand through his hair, Crockett dropped onto the couch beside Melania, who had remained silent, content with emptying her glass of wine. 

“The  _ point _ ,” repeated Crockett, glaring at Natalie, “is that you were seen. Even if you can  _ maybe _ get away with it, if you keep up like this it’ll cause a scandal that we might not be able to hush up.”

“Antonin told me he’s also acting as a sort of bodyguard,” said Natalie, settling herself onto the couch so she could lean against Tom Riddle. His presence made her much more calm than the last time there had been a disaster of this kind. “Because the Aurors report to Rowle or something. Does Tiberius think I can’t handle myself? Were you aware of that?”

Crockett blinked and she watched something flash through his eyes before his gaze hardened and his eyes briefly dropped to the floor. A squeezing in her gut made her glare at her agent.

“Winky,” she said, it was her turn to be angry now. “Did you know about that?”

“Yeah,” he said shortly, looking back up at her. His face remained a mask and with a glance at his eyes, she could sense his Occlumency walls coming up. 

“How many people think I need a bodyguard?”

“Who would argue against that except you?” he retorted, spreading his hands and gesturing to the others present. 

Natalie glanced around the room, first to Abraxas, leaning against the fireplace. He gave her a look that indicated he thought she needed much more than a bodyguard, perhaps also a sanity check. Melania hid her face in her wine glass, and Voldemort simply laughed softly.

“Lovely,” she said under her breath and sprang to her feet. Tom fluidly did the same as if anticipating her movement. “Well, if we’re all in agreement that Antonin and I were not at the Leaky Cauldron today, I’m retiring from your presences for the day. You’ve all pissed me off. Especially you, Winky.”

“Glad we have such a loving relationship,” he remarked. 

“Me too,” she said sarcastically, sweeping out of the room to Abraxas’s sniggering and Crockett’s muttering, Tom on her heels.

They hadn’t gone halfway down the hall when he grabbed hold of her sleeve and turned her to face him, nearly spilling the frappe she still clutched.

He stared at her for a moment, his dark eyes roving between hers as though searching for something. It was evident he did not find it.

“Did you know Crockett also reports to your Uncle?”

She blinked and found she was not exactly surprised. “What do you mean?”

“That’s how the entire Ministry keeps tabs on you. Your activities. Your moods. On the team as well. The outcomes of matches. If you’ve caught the Snitch. Crockett keeps them all exceedingly informed on everything.”

Natalie was silent. She slipped her hand into his and continued heading down the hall, swirling the churned ice cream around in its cup.

“How did you find that out?” she quietly asked, leading him upstairs. “Did you use-”

“Legilimency. Before you tried to do so. Crockett’s skilled in Occlumency, but only when he’s expecting an attack.”

Grinning, she paused halfway up the stairs to reach up and kiss him. “I knew it.”

He kissed her back for a moment before asking, “you knew he's skilled in Occlumency?”

“I knew you’d probed his mind,” she laughed before growing serious as they continued up the stairs. “But. . . I can’t say I’m surprised — him reporting to Tiberius too. Despite going behind my back and being bloody sneaky. The bastard.”

“I can’t say I can blame them,” he said with a snort, “given your penchant for disturbing volatility. Today itself being a good example of that.”

“What did it seem like?” she asked, “when you snooped about his mind?”

He was silent until they reached the top of the stairs. “It seems like you have the entire Ministry working to make sure you’ll win the Cup.”

Natalie’s muscles stopped working, immobilizing her on the spot. The only thing she could keep a hold on was the frappe. Tom managed to catch her before she could fall, helping her up the last few steps to the upper floor landing. She couldn’t bring herself to speak until he steered her into her room and sat her on the bed. He tugged what remained of the butterbeer frappe out of her grasp and placed it on the table beside her bed before she grabbed his hands. She pulled him close so she could see every flicker, every flame that writhed within his eyes. 

“Did they — are they — have they fixed any of the matches?” she wheezed, “have we cheated our way to the Semi-Final?”

“No,” he said, and she believed him. 

“How. . . how do you know that?”

“They don’t need to fix the matches. They need you to be in the right mood to catch the Snitch. Why did you think you were allowed to live at the stadium for an entire month? I was under the impression that was how Quidditch matches were won — by catching the Snitch.”

“Not always,” she huffed, recalling the Russian match. 

“Are you going to say it hasn’t been convenient for you to have the Ministry of Magic on your side?” he asked, a slight smirk gracing his face. “Like when you got rid of that Muggle in Paris-”

She shuddered with a sudden flashback to the Muggle  café , squeezing his hands as tight as she could until he tore them away, only to settle on the bed beside her. He pulled her into his lap and she instinctively moved to wrap her arms around him and rest her head on his chest so she could hear the steady thudding of his heartbeat. It quickly synchronized with the perpetual ticking of the horcrux around her neck, sending a wave of calm through her.

“The Muggle deserved it.”

“I know.”

Silence fell between them until she cleared her throat, gaze falling on the butterbeer frappe, recalling what he had said when she had snapped at him to bring her one. “Why did you actually come here?”

She felt him hesitate and knew whatever he had to say would aggravate her.

“What?” she demanded. “What is it?”

“I. . . don’t see you continuing with everything to be the. . . wisest choice.”

“Continuing with what?”

“Quidditch.”

She pulled back to look him in the eye. “Is this just because you don’t like me playing, and Dent, and my track record of getting injured?”

“Not particularly,” he rolled his eyes and she felt him tense. “Something. . . feels off.”

She stared; he wasn’t making any sense at all. His eyes were swirling blackholes, and she had the distinct feeling he was just as perplexed about what he was saying as she was. “So you don’t want me to play in the Semi-Final. . . because you’ve got a bad feeling.”

He shot her a glare. “Sounds ridiculous when you put it like that.”

“Is that not what you’re implying?”

“I’m  _ implying  _ nothing.”

She stood and he followed suit, grabbing at her wrist. But she pulled away and began furiously pacing the room as her anger mounted.

“Then what?” she turned to face him, not surprised that he was glaring right back at her.

“This whole thing,” he said through clenched teeth, “the World Cup, the contracts, the Department, the Ministry, the ICWQC. . . there are. . . a lot of factors, a lot of variables. . . a lot of  _ people _ involved in everything.”

“You said so yourself that they aren’t fixing the matches.”

“I’m not talking about the matches.”

“Then, what?” she snapped, rage plummeted to her gut. She hated when he did this. His opinion was the only one that mattered to her and yet he always felt the need to attack the sport she had given her life to, that had gotten her through the darkest of times, and had now made her famous  _ and  _ wealthy. Just because he had a stupid  _ feeling.  _ “What are you talking about? Because I sure as hell am not  _ not _ playing in our next match!”

He remained silent. They glared at each other across the room until the windows behind Natalie burst. She ducked under the onslaught of glass, though all of it landed harmlessly on the floor, leaving her untouched.

Lord Voldemort vanished the broken glass and repaired the windows with a lazy wave of his wand.

They burst again immediately upon being repaired.

“Really?” he asked in annoyance.

“Don’t bother fixing them again until you explain what you’re talking about,” she snarled, not at all surprised the windows couldn’t hold up — she thought her own head might burst too.

He looked much more controlled than she felt. “Dolohov’s acting as your bodyguard. . . of sorts, per the Minister’s orders.”

Her muscles slackened as she grew confused by the sudden change of topic. “Yeah. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“This isn’t just another Quidditch match anymore,” he said, eyes boring into hers. “It’s an international. . . development. . . and there’s a lot more at play. . . . And not everyone in the world loves you as much as the Prophet makes it seem.”

She frowned, recalling what Dolohov had said about her needing to start ‘thinking differently.’

“Yes, you need to start thinking differently,” he vocalized the memory he had obviously just glimpsed within her mind.

“So, what should I do? Assume everyone’s out to get me?” her anger was unwilling to leave.

“Assume that showing up at the Leaky Cauldron because you’ve whimsically decided you need shepherd’s pie is not the best idea.”

Her eyes darted to the forgotten butterbeer frappe and when the cup exploded before their eyes, he added, “or ice cream.”

“Can you get me another?” she asked quietly, staring at the remnants of the frappe until they vanished.

She could feel his surprise and confusion at the sudden drop of her voice. He remained silent, looking at her with something between curiosity and suspicion. She looked down at the glass around her feet. It flew upwards and back into the window frames, fitting itself together until it looked as though it had never been broken. Glancing back where the frappe had been, she crossed her arms.

“Can you get me another. . . like — now?”

“Are you sure your captain would like you having that much ice cream?" he turned to leave. The frostiness in his voice immediately inflamed her temper; they both knew he had no intention of fulfilling her request.

“I’m still playing in the next match!” she called as he walked out of the room.

He didn’t respond but she knew he had rolled his eyes.

“Because you can’t just  _ leave _ the national team before the Semi-Final!” she yelled and the windows burst behind her for the third time.


	28. March 1946: Engagements, Excursions, and Shagging Mudbloods

“MALFOY!”

“WHAT?”

“WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” Dent hovered above the goal posts as they enacted real game-play at practice using enchanted dummies that would turn invisible in the middle of play. It made flying ten times harder — you never knew when an invisible dummy would come knock you off your broom or steal the Quaffle right out of your hand. Or, like Leonard Cadwallader — snatch the Beater’s bat from your hand and hit you over the head with it. 

Natalie had come to a rest right on top of the hoops Dent guarded. The heels of her feet kicking at the goal posts as she sat — much too casually — on her broom. 

“I’m sitting here,” she called down to the captain as the Pottingers had the Quaffle stolen from them by an invisible dummy. “Look out, the dummies are coming.”

Dent turned — only the Quaffle could be seen streaking towards them. Ricky Webster smacked a Bludger at it, hitting the dummy — which briefly turned visible before vanishing once again. It was enough time for a Pottinger to snatch it back up. 

Dent returned to barking at her. “Why aren’t you looking for the Snitch?”

“I was looking for the Snitch!” she snapped, eyes scanning the stadium. “But I don’t think you released it.”

“I did,” he said.

“You’re lying,” she said.

“I am not!” he yelled up at her. 

“Yes, you are!” she shot back, “where is it then?”

“It’s  _ your _ job to find it!”

“I can’t find it!”

“You’re a shitty Seeker then! We’re never going to get to the Cup Final if you just decide you can’t find the Snitch!”

“Where did you put it?” she demanded as the Pottingers sunk a goal on the opposing end of the stadium. 

“What do you mean?” Dent asked innocently. 

Natalie glared at him. “I know you did something with it. Something stupid, no doubt.”

“Are you accusing me of being an unfair captain?”

“No, I’m accusing you of being bloody annoying.”

“I should make you run laps for that.”

“Aren’t we going to do that anyway?”

“Well, yeah, tomorrow-”

“Where’d you put the fucking Snitch, Dent?”

“I can’t  _ tell _ you where the Snitch is, Malfoy,” he said as though this was a crime worthy of Azkaban, but she caught his slight glance towards the stands surrounding the stadium.

“Did you trap it in the stands?” she demanded.

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“Just trying to give my Seeker some. . . enrichment.”

“Enrichment,” she scoffed, “it would be  _ enriching _ if I was allowed to go somewhere other than this stadium to put up with you dunderheads every day!”

“That’s your own fault, I heard.”

“Shut up!” she flew off towards the stands to search for wherever he had hidden the Snitch, grumbling to herself all the while. 

It took her nearly an hour to find the Snitch. After Dent shouted something about how she could never be too careful where she looked, she had to abandon her broom and scour through the stands on foot, checking on top of, around, and below every individual seat. She was furious she hadn’t brought her wand out to practice that day — though Dent probably would have done something even more absurd at tomorrow’s practice if she attempted to use a Summoning Charm.

Practice was over and her teammates were hollering a mixture of encouragement and disparagement (mostly the latter) at her from the pitch when she finally found the tiny golden ball, stuck under a random seat halfway down the stands. Whatever sticking charm held it fast broke when she flung out her hand and snatched it up. 

Needless to say, Natalie was in a very sour mood when they marched off the pitch and into the dressing room, sprinting to hurry out before her teammates, in spite of Dent’s comments that she “had no need to rush because she literally had nowhere to go.”

She was surprised to step out of the team locker room to find Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson, wearing their sharp Triple I robes along with goofy grins, waiting for her instead of Antonin Dolohov. 

“What, did Antonin get bored of babysitting me?” she asked as they both crushed her into a hug. 

“The Minister needed him for something else, apparently,” said Lestrange once she swatted them away, “so we volunteered.”

“How nice of you,” she teased, her mood immediately lifting upon seeing the two troublemakers, who’d been traveling for Triple I most of the year. Lestrange slung a hand around her shoulders and steered them towards the back exit. 

“We’ve got big news, actually,” said Dawson, an enormous grin on his face. “Two things-”

“I’m engaged, as you know!” Lestrange burst out, unable to stay quiet. “I proposed to Savanna-”

“Months ago,” said Dawson.

“-and she said yes, obviously, because why wouldn’t she-”

“Poor girl,” said Dawson.

“-and, here’s the important part to know: we’ve picked a date-”

“Like they’re in a rush or something,” continued Dawson, the full, gray eye of the Triple I logo winked mischievously each time he spoke. 

“-so save the date because it’s gonna be a Christmas wedding-”

“Ruins the holiday, if you ask me,” said Dawson.

Lestrange stepped away from Natalie to fling a punch at Dawson’s shoulder. “Can you shut it!”

He turned back to Natalie to find her doubled-over, laughing at the two of them. Straightening up, she grinned. “You’d think Eric is a bit  _ jealous _ of Savanna, marrying his best mate and all.”

“He is!” exclaimed Lestrange while Dawson scoffed dramatically. 

“Please! If anything, Savanna should be jealous of  _ me _ .  _ I’m  _ going to be the best man!”

“Aw,” Natalie patted Dawson’s arm and gave him a hug. “The best man! Look at you, I’m so proud of you.”

Lestrange spluttered, “I’m the one getting married here! It’s  _ my  _ wedding!”

“Oh, yes,” Natalie detached herself from Dawson. “I must remember to owl Savanna to let her know I’ll be present to see her married.”

“What about  _ me _ !” whined Lestrange, waving his hands about. “I’m the bloke marrying her!”

“Hm, that’s right,” she surveyed Lestrange with a critical eye while Dawson tried to contain his laughter. “I’ll be sure to wish her good luck too.”

“Ugh!” Lestrange sounded terribly offended. “You’re awful!”

“Thanks,” she laughed and gestured at the brick wall ahead of them. “Are we leaving?”

“Oh, yeah, hold on a second,” Lestrange’s tone quickly changed, he shot an excited look at Dawson, who pulled out a tiny vial from his robes and held it up to her. It was filled with a thick, royal blue potion.

She narrowed her eyes between the two of them. “What is that?”

“Polyjuice Potion,” whispered Dawson, sounding very pleased with himself.

“My  _ fiancée _ was kind enough to donate one of her beautiful blonde hairs for this little excursion,” said Lestrange as Dawson handed the vial to her. 

“Excursion,” she repeated blankly before she gave them an enormous grin as understanding broke over her. “Bloody hell! We can go wherever I want?”

“Wherever you want,” nodded Dawson.

“No one knows about this, I assume?” she asked.

“Nope,” Lestrange looked devilish. “But we figured you’d like a change of scenery.”

She lunged at them both for another bear hug, squeezing them as hard as she could while they laughed. “I love you idiots.”

“Aw,” they both crooned.

“Stop that though,” she said with disgust, stepping away from them and glancing around the tunnel. The Pottingers had stepped out of the locker room and were heading down the other end of the tunnel. She stuck the vial of Polyjuice Potion in her pocket. “Okay, first. . . the Aurors need to see me leave. . . .”

“On it,” said Lestrange, and he looped his arm through her’s on one side while Dawson took the other. Trying not to giggle, she allowed them to steer her through the brick wall and to the back entrance of the stadium. Only Keefe Jameson stood outside. The Auror twirled his wand around his fingers and looked incredibly bored.

“You can head out now,” Natalie said with a quick smile. “We’re all done.”

Relief flashed across his face. “Brilliant,” he said, glancing between Lestrange and Dawson in confusion for a moment before his eyes landed on the Triple I logo on their robes. He nodded to both of them and drew his wand through the air to allow them to step through the protective enchantments around the stadium. They slipped past, trying to contain their laughter.

“Okay, I’ve a plan,” she said quietly, “apparate into the back room of Borgin and Burkes.”

“Are you going to take the potion?” asked Dawson.

“When we get there,” she said, tilting her head back to point out that Keefe Jameson was watching them leave.

“Got it,” said Dawson with a grin. 

“And if someone’s in the back room of Borgin and Burkes?” asked Lestrange.

“Makes this excursion all the more fun,” she said and he looked elated. Laughing, they unlooped their arms and turned to disapparate away.

Appearing with a soft crack, Natalie quickly looked around the back storage room of Borgin and Burkes. No one else was present. The room was dimly lit by a few rust-eaten sconces with flickering candles, throwing an eerie light over the motley collection of objects stuffed onto rickety wooden shelves. A stuffed head of a wrinkled house-elf glared at her from the wall, and an all-black suit of armor holding a heavy crossbow near the curtain leading out into the shop slowly turned its head with a harsh squeal to look at her with empty eyes.

With two small pops, Lestrange and Dawson apparated beside her. They looked around the room, first with disappointment that they had not scared the living daylights out of old Burke, then with curiosity as several objects caught their attention.

“Blimey,” whistled Lestrange, leaning over to study an enormous axe that had what Natalie was sure were blood stains all over it. “This axe was used by Greer the Godless to chop off the heads of  _ thirteen  _ giants. . . wicked. . . .”

“Yeah, well, this candlestick melts all the candle wax into your skin until it seeps into your bloodstream and slowly poisons you,” Dawson pointed to a rather innocent looking golden candlestick.

“I didn’t plan for this to be a shopping trip,” she hissed at the boys. “I just want to get ice cream.”

Lestrange gestured at her. “Then why do you still look like Natalie Malfoy?” 

“Shh,” she hushed him, retrieving the vial of Polyjuice Potion from her robes. Before she could remove the stopper, the black curtain leading to the front of the shop was thrust aside and Tom Riddle burst into the back room, his wand pointing at them.

Lestrange and Dawson instinctively flung their hands up in the air. Natalie just stared at him. Upon realizing who was snooping about in the back room of Borgin and Burkes, he lowered his wand. 

“What are you all doing here?”

Lestrange and Dawson dropped their hands, and Lestrange pointed at Natalie. “Her idea.”

“What,” she scoffed, pulling the stopper off the potion and taking a sniff only to grimace. “This  _ excursion _ thing was  _ your _ idea.”

“Excursion?” repeated Tom, now looking at the vial in her hands. 

“Yeah,” she said, tilting it back and swallowing the Polyjuice Potion in one gulp, trying not to gag at the taste. The world turned hazy around her as her insides felt like they were being smashed all together, her bones and muscles pulled apart and rearranged, and her skin seemed to swim over it all like a thick stew. 

When the transformation was complete, she pocketed the empty vial, ran a hand through the golden blonde hair of Savanna Rowle, and looked around at the three boys. “How do I look?”

“Disgusting,” said Dawson.

“Gorgeous,” said Lestrange.

“Idiotic,” said Voldemort.

Natalie looked at Adolphus and raised her — or Savanna’s — eyebrows. “Are you going to tolerate these insults to your fiancée?”

“Fiancée?” said Tom, looking over at Lestrange.

Lestrange grinned like a little boy. “Savanna and I are engaged. Wedding is this Christmas.”

“Glad to see you didn’t go with August fifth,” said Voldemort with a snort.

“Adolphus!” snapped Natalie, “you were going to plan your wedding on the same day as the Cup Final?! What’s wrong with you?”

“You know,  _ Savanna  _ doesn’t usually talk to me like that. She’s actually  _ nice _ to me,” Lestrange crossed his arms while Tom Riddle laughed to himself. “You’re going to do a terrible job at selling this.”

“All I want is a butterbeer frappe,” she said, “and then let’s go bother Evan and Zack at the Ministry.”

“Savanna Rowle can’t just walk into the Ministry to bother my dad’s favorite employees,” sighed Dawson. “Natalie Malfoy could. But not Adolphus’s fiancée.”

Natalie looked between Dawson and Voldemort. The latter raised his eyebrows as though agreeing with this statement.

“I guess you’re right,” she muttered, very much disappointed with this whole excursion now. 

“Evan and Zack are at the Malfoy Manor right now, anyway,” said Lestrange. “Melania invited Cygnus and Druella over for tea and they dropped by too.”

Natalie slowly turned to look between Lestrange and Dawson. “Of all days to pick to go on an excursion, you two picked the  _ worst _ day. We should just go to the Manor, seeing as everyone is there.”

“It should also be noted that Savanna Rowle would be at Hogwarts right now,” said Voldemort, who now looked incredibly amused by the entire situation. “Why would she be wandering about Diagon Alley at noon. . . on a Wednesday. . . in mid-March?”

Infuriated, Natalie picked up the closest thing to her, which happened to be a dusty old pillow, and flung it across the room. It hit Lestrange in the chest and sent him flying backwards — with much more force than she had expected to come from a pillow. He crashed into a shelf holding a collection of delicate china plates with roses painted on them. The entire shelf collapsed down onto him.

“Do you have any thinking skills?” she yelled, “besides just doing what sounds like fun?”

The delicate china plates and the dusty old pillow were apparently not what they appeared to be. Instead of breaking upon impact, the china came to life. Quivering and glowing with an ominous yellow light, they rose into the air and spun about as what had looked like painted roses turned into actual thorns that sprung up out of the plates and waved threateningly about. The pillow, meanwhile, was doing its utmost to suffocate Lestrange, clinging to his face and wrapping around his neck and head as he struggled with it. Dawson leapt over to help his mate, shooting a spell at the pillow which made its goose down fall out until Lestrange could peel it away from his face and gasp for breath.

There was silence in the back room as everyone stared at the floating plates with waving rose thorns. Natalie let out a hysterical laugh at how disastrous this excursion had already become — and the china plates launched themselves at Lestrange and Dawson, doing their best to tear open as much flesh as possible with their thorns as the boys screamed bloody murder and started shooting spells off with reckless abandon. Flashes of light bounced around the room, destroying more artifacts. Natalie flung herself to the floor as one ricocheted off the stuffed house-elf head and struck the black suit of armor behind her with a resounding gong. 

Voldemort stepped forward, pointed his wand at the attacking china and muttered a spell. Instantly, the china dropped out of the air and hit the ground, shattering to pieces and losing whatever murderous sentience it possessed. Natalie cautiously stood back up to catch a glance of Lestrange and Dawson — panting and covered in numerous cuts — before her senses darkened and she dropped back to the floor just as the black suit of armor lifted its crossbow and fired a barbed arrow towards her. It sailed over her head and embedded itself in the stuffed house-elf’s nose on the opposing wall.

Silence returned within the back room and Natalie poked her head up to look at Tom Riddle. He shot another spell at the suit of armor and it seemed to deflate, its helmet falling to rest on its cuirass and its bow dropped back to its side.

“I take it Burke isn’t working today, then,” she said when he walked towards where she sat on the floor, annoyance oozing all around him.

“Lucky for you,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Was this your intention for coming here? Destroying the place?”

“No,” she said sheepishly and gestured to the tiny door on the far wall that led out to Knockturn Alley. “Just needed to not be seen while taking the Polyjuice Potion somewhere with a back door.”

“You couldn’t have done that anywhere else?”

“Well,  _ maybe  _ I wanted to see you.”

“How touching. Almost as endearing as destroying my shop.”

“ _ Your _ shop? If anything it’s  _ my  _ shop. Burke made a fortune selling my team posters and you know it.”

“Get up,” he said, glaring down at her. “You already look idiotic. You don’t have to look even more so on the floor.”

She rolled to her feet and realized that Savanna was a bit taller than her normal stature. She grinned at Tom from this new height, and was delighted to find that it infuriated him. 

A loud coughing drew their attention away from glaring at the other. Lestrange and Dawson stood in a pile of broken china and limp goose feathers. They’d healed any minor injuries they’d sustained from the assault, though Lestrange’s hair looked wild from the tussle with the pillow. 

“No offense,” Lestrange began in a small voice, pointing between Natalie, who still looked like his fiancée, and Lord Voldemort. They were inches from one another and the tension was palpable between them. “But this is terrifying and I don’t like it. Also-”

“How much trouble are we in?” Dawson finished for him. 

“Well, this whole thing is Adolphus’s fault,” said Natalie.

“What?” Lestrange’s jaw dropped, “you threw the pillow that tried to kill me!”

“I wouldn’t’ve had to do that had  _ you  _ put a little more thinking into your plan for this excursion!”

“This bloody excursion was Eric’s idea!” Lestrange pointed at Dawson, who looked thunderstruck and pointed right back at him.

“The Polyjuice Potion was  _ your _ idea!” 

“You made the potion!”

“You got the hair from Savanna!”

There was a loud bang as Lord Voldemort slashed his wand through the air and they fell silent, now looking guilty.

“Enough,” he said coldly. “This can be fixed-”

Natalie dug out the velvet pouch of gold she always carried on her since the time she found herself without any in Diagon Alley and held it out to Tom Riddle. He fell silent, staring at it in confusion. She waved her wand and the broken china and feathers vanished. 

“Just tell Burke I bought them,” she said with a shrug. “Is he going to complain?”

“No,” said Tom slowly, taking the pouch and weighing it in his hand. “Definitely not.”

“And also,” the silly grin on her face made him give her a suspicious look. She pointed at the suit of black armor that had almost shot an arrow straight through her. “I actually want to buy this stupid thing.”

Tom stared at her. “Why?”

“It explains that,” she pointed at the arrow in the house-elf. “And I just think it’s neat.”

“I think it’s bloody brilliant,” Lestrange tossed out his opinion.

“Engagement gift, then? If you’d like it,” she grinned at Savanna Rowle’s future husband.

Lestrange placed a hand over his heart and looked lovestruck. “My own fiancée giving me an engagement gift. . . .”

Natalie slapped a hand to her face and pulled on some of the golden hair — it was much more sunny than her usual platinum. “Bloody hell — how long is this going to last? Do we have time to go to Fortescue’s?”

Dawson checked his watch. “You should have at least thirty more minutes. But what about how Savanna is supposed to be at school?”

“Ugh!” Natalie groaned and sank back to the floor. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you’re bored,” said Tom, shooting her a look as though this ought to have been obvious. “Get off the floor.”

Instead she settled back to lay down on the cold stone floor, sprawling her limbs all about and closing her eyes. “Eric!” she called, “go get me a butterbeer frappe. I’ll stay here until I don’t look like Savanna.”

“Get me one too,” demanded Lestrange, “seeing as my _best_ _man_ didn’t get me an engagement gift-”

“I have,” Dawson scoffed and Natalie heard him moving through the room towards the exit. “I was just making you wait.”

“Oh,” Lestrange sounded touched. “I didn’t know-”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point of gifts, you idiot,” said Dawson, “they’re a surprise.”

Both Dawson and Lestrange headed out, with Lestrange making cooing noises at his best mate and best man. Natalie opened her eyes to find Tom Riddle standing over her, looking unimpressed.

“Are you just going to lay there?”

“Probably,” she said.

“Borgin should be coming back any minute.”

“Ah, Erasmus,” she sighed, “he’s always a delight.”

“He’s terrified of you.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

Rolling up to her feet, she stepped over to peek around the heavy curtain leading to the front of the shop. 

“Are there any customers here?” she asked.

“Obviously not,” he replied, walking through the curtain and into the shop. “We’re closed.”

She followed him out. “Then why are you here?”

“I’m trying to break the enchantment on this,” he gestured to a tiny jewelry box sitting on the counter. It was made of a highly polished dark wood and had curling silver runes engraved on each of its drawers. “It’s been locked for the forty years its been here. Burke is convinced it contains something incredibly valuable to wizardkind, but hasn’t bothered letting me know what’s inside and refuses to sell it, which is why I suspect he might be somewhat telling the truth.”

“Oh, so you’re not supposed to be trying to open it then,” she laughed and jumped up to sit cross-legged on the counter; her favorite thing to do in the shop. “Have you tried  _ alohomora _ ?”

“Obviously,” he rolled his eyes. 

“Hm,” she stared at it intently for a moment before flinging out a hand and knocking it to the floor in a manner not unlike a petty feline. It fell with a heavy clunk. She peered down at it and frowned. It hadn’t opened. 

“Did you actually think that would work?” asked Voldemort.

“Yeah,” she admitted.

He sighed and picked the jewelry box up to return it to the counter, Natalie leaning over his arm to inspect it for cracks the entire time. 

“If you’re going to act like a cat, just transform,” he said, pushing her away. When his hand touched her shoulder, he paused. Setting the jewelry box back down he placed a hand on her knee with the same manner in which one would determine the softness of a fabric.

“Stay still,” he said.

“What’re you doing-”

He moved his hand from her knee to her shoulder to her cheek before pulling it back as though she had said something offensive.

“It’s. . . dulled,” he said it like this was a personal affront to him. 

She stared at him. “What?” 

“Your energy,” he scowled and gestured to her. “The Polyjuice Potion must be affecting it somehow.”

“Well, this technically isn’t my body,” she glanced down to study the lines of Savanna Rowle’s palms.

“Oh, really?” his sarcasm was ruthless. “Is that how Polyjuice Potion works?”

“Shut up,” she said, trying to tug open the drawers of the jewelry box one by one. 

“Do you think everyone who’s come across this hasn’t tried that?”

“You never know,” she shrugged but then looked up at him and paused. “Are you just going to stare at me like I’ve done something awful?”

“Yes,” he said, gesturing at her again. “I don’t like this.”

“What, me sitting on the counter?”

“Stop acting ignorant. The Polyjuice Potion.”

“I don’t like it either.”

“Then why did you drink it?”

“I wanted to go somewhere that isn’t the stadium or the Manor.”

“You’re bored.”

She sighed and narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe.”

He gave her a triumphant smirk as there was a noise in the back room.

“Borgin’s back,” she said unconsciously.

Tom pushed her hands off the jewelry box and carried it off into the shop, returning it to wherever he got it from. Natalie turned towards the entrance to the back room and prepared herself for Borgin’s arrival.

Erasmus Borgin, wearing black robes and a scowl, ducked around the curtain and froze upon seeing her sitting on the counter. His hand flashed to his pocket and his pale eyes narrowed. 

“Who are you?”

“It’s me, you dolt,” she began, but then remembered she did not look like herself at all. She promptly decided she hated Polyjuice Potion.

Borgin drew his wand and pointed it at her. “Pardon me?”

“Are you normally in the habit of drawing your wand on pureblood witches?” she crossed her arms and straightened her back. “I’ll have you know I’m Frederick Rowle’s daughter and the fiancée of Adolphus Lestrange!”

The surnames made Borgin lower his wand, but only slightly. His voice was polite but still contained an underlying sneer. “How did you enter this shop? We’re closed at the moment.”

“Your hours are a little ridiculous, don’t you think?” Natalie, pretending to be Savanna though knowing full-well the actual Savanna Rowle would never behave in such a manner, said pompously. “What, do you and Burke just close the shop down whenever you feel like it?”

Borgin hesitated, finally pocketing his wand, then said, “well, yes-”

Tom Riddle popped back up from returning the jewelry box to its spot within the shop. Looking over at him, Borgin pointed between him and Natalie. “Did you let her in?”

“No,” said Tom without a hint of emotion.

“So you really just close the shop whenever you feel like it?” continued Natalie, she found Borgin’s bewilderment fabulously entertaining.

“Is that my fiancée’s voice I hear?” Lestrange ducked around the curtain, Dawson right behind him, both clutching two ice cream frappes each. Borgin jumped at their sudden appearance, his wand pointing at these new intruders.

“Who are you and how did you get in here?” Borgin’s gaze drifted to the Triple I logo on their robes and his wand lowered.

“I’m Adolphus,” said Lestrange casually, “Adolphus Lestrange.”

“Eric Dawson,” said Dawson, taking a sip from what looked like a chocolate peanut butter frappe. “Is there a problem here?”

Borgin ignored the question. “You two work for Triple I?”

Lestrange made a big show of looking at the logo on his, and then Dawson’s robes, while Dawson laughed into his frappe. “Yeah, looks like we do.”

“Ah,” gasped Natalie, leaning forward and clutching the edges of the counter she still sat on. Her body grew warm and tingly as the Polyjuice started wearing off. Her vision blurred and her head began pounding — she rolled off the counter and crouched on the floor as her skin crawled, her insides swam, and a tidal wave seemed to rush through her. She blinked until her eyes could focus and everything within her seemed to settle back to normal. It was like peeling off sweaty robes — she suddenly felt much better without even realizing how uncomfortable she’d been.

Natalie climbed to her feet and grinned. Everyone had fallen silent as she morphed back into herself. Tom moved towards her and snatched up her hand as though checking her pulse. A look of satisfaction crossed his face and Natalie had the distinct feeling he would have snogged her right there had the others not been present. 

“I was joking, actually,” she told Borgin, who was now staring at her in horror. “I’m not Adolphus’s fiancée.”

“Yeah, she’s not pretty enough to marry me,” teased Lestrange. He stepped forward and handed over the butterbeer frappe. Natalie shook Tom away from her to eagerly accept the ice cream. 

“Yeah, that’s why Eric’s marrying you — because he’s prettier than me,” she remarked, making Dawson choke on his frappe and turn bright red. “Congrats on the engagement, Eric. Though good luck putting up with this idiot.”

Borgin looked around at them all, spluttering. “What — what are you all doing here?” His eyes dropped to the counter behind Natalie and he visibly paled. Natalie turned to find that the counter she had been sitting on when the Polyjuice Potion wore off had black scorch marks all over its surface. 

Natalie drew her wand and tapped the counter. A thin wooden surface plopped over the counter and seamlessly attached itself to the top, hiding the marks. Pocketing her wand, she turned back and smiled. “Right, well, we’ve got a tea party to crash. There’s a suit of armor I want that I’ll be picking up. . . at some point. Do tell Burke that, won’t you?”

Borgin stared at her, flabbergasted. “Er, that’s not for sale-”

“Oh, dodgy,” she hummed, looking him in the eye. “It is now.”

“It is now. . .?” he slowly repeated.

“It is now,” she said again.

“It is now,” he said with a nod. His eyes drifted to Tom Riddle as if seeing him for the first time. “What are you doing here, Tom? We’re closed.”

Tom’s eyes flew to Natalie. She gave him a toothy grin and he plucked the butterbeer frappe from her grip and took a sip. Making a face at the flavor, he handed it back to her. As if cued, Dawson stepped forward and held out the second frappe he had to Tom. Taking a sip of this one, he seemed much more pleased with the flavor. Natalie shot a look at Dawson and he mouthed “vanilla and mint.” She had to stifle her laughter when Tom finally responded to Borgin, his voice sounding creamy and melodic.

“Just on a. . . an excursion.”

Lestrange and Dawson choked on their ice cream, Dawson grabbing onto Lestrange’s robes as they tried to keep their laughter quiet — it came out as strangled coughs. Natalie slapped a hand over her mouth, looked around at them and moved towards the back room, slipping behind the curtain.

“Right, well, we’ll be off then. . . c’mon. . . kids. . . .” Lestrange and Dawson scrambled after her, still shaking with laughter. Tom Riddle smoothly followed, leaving Borgin a muttering, confused mess.

Lestrange’s and Dawson’s laughter exploded once they returned to the back room, though they all quickly disapparated. Appearing in the entrance hall of the Malfoy Manor, where the two boys’ laughter echoed around the long hallway. Even Natalie descended into giggles until the door to the lounge popped open and out stepped Evan Rosier.

“Oh,” he said with a smirk, running an eye over them. “I thought I heard a bunch of dimwitted idiots making a ruckus out here. Turns out I was right.”

“How’s the tea party going?” asked Natalie, strolling towards him with her frappe. Tom on her heels, Lestrange and Dawson slowly following, still beside themselves with laughter.

“Boring,” said Rosier. “Lots of girl gossip.”

“Girl gossip,” she laughed, “who’s here? And why are you here?”

Rosier grinned, “Melania invited my annoying sister and her husband over for tea. Zack and I decided to tag along since Seamus told us to take the day off. Cygnus brought his brother, Alphard, too.”

“Oh,” she raised an eyebrow, as this was certainly interesting to her. Then she scowled, looking at the boys around her. “Does nobody here  _ actually  _ work?”

“Do you?” asked Lestrange.

“I play for the national team,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, how’s that  _ work _ ?”

“I definitely work harder than you,” she muttered, recalling how Dent made her search through the stands to find the Snitch that morning.

The door behind Rosier opened wider and Alphard Black appeared. He seemed momentarily surprised at the sheer number of people outside in the hall before a smug smirk appeared on his face when he saw the butterbeer frappe in Natalie’s hand.

“Are these the latest blokes you’ve tricked into buying you ice cream?”

“I don’t have to trick these blokes into buying me ice cream,” she said with a laugh, moving to slip past him and into the room. 

Melania was gracefully lounging on the couch near the fireplace, a cup of tea in hand as she chatted amicably with Druella Black. Druella and her husband, Cygnus Black, sat on the couch opposing Melania, both with their own tea cups. Zacharias Nott was slumped in one of the wing-backed armchairs, floating his full cup of tea in the air and trying to make it spin without spilling any. Upon her entrance, the tea cup dropped to the floor and splattered all over the carpet. The conversation paused as eyes turned to her, and then to the group that entered the room behind her.

“Hi,” she greeted the Blacks, shooting a quick grin at Nott and Melania.

“This where the party is, huh?” drawled Lestrange, he and Dawson threw themselves onto the couch beside Melania, loudly slurping on their frappes and, as usual, taking up as much space and attention as possible. Rosier dropped onto the couch with his sister while Alphard and Tom took the two armchairs beside Nott. Tom stared at her until she leaned against his chair and studied the room while sipping her frappe, trying to gauge what the conversation had been about before their arrival. 

Druella Black and Evan Rosier looked at the frappes between Natalie, Tom, Adolphus, and Eric.

“Where’s mine?” the siblings demanded, immediately shooting a glare at the other.

“None of you came on our  _ excursion _ ,” bragged Lestrange, to Natalie’s dismay.

“Excursion?” said Alphard with a laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Natalie shot a wide-eyed look at Lestrange, avoiding eye contact with Melania, who was now giving her a suspicious look.

“Uh, nothing,” said Lestrange hastily. “Eric and I, er, dropped by Fortescue’s.”

“With the world’s wealthiest Quidditch player in tow, I assume?” Alphard was still finding the situation funny. She shot him a glare and mouthed, “shut up.” He raised an eyebrow but fell silent.

“I thought you two were supposed to bring Natalie back here after practice,” Melania narrowed her eyes at Lestrange and Dawson.

“We went to Fortescue’s before we went to the stadium,” said Dawson. 

Melania looked at them quietly for a moment, clearly unwilling to argue the point further. “I see.”

“What’s all the fuss about ice cream?” asked Cygnus Black.

“Natalie causes an uproar every time she’s seen in public,” said Druella, looking at Natalie with something like respect in her hooded eyes. “Alphard would know, right, Alphard?”

Alphard snorted, “sure, Ella.”

“Oh, yes,” Cygnus leaned forward to look between Alphard and Natalie. “My mother keeps raving about you two. That article in  _ Charmin’ Cheers _ had her in a complete tizzy.”

Natalie slid onto the armrest of the chair Tom sat in, balancing herself beside him with the smooth ease of a cat on a ledge. She let one leg hang over the armrest, dangling loosely towards the floor while she bent and tucked the other in, so her knee jutted out sideways towards Tom. His hand instinctively rose to rest on her knee. 

“Really, why?” she asked innocently, drawing the exasperated gazes of Nott, Rosier, Lestrange, and Dawson.

“My mother-in-law thinks you two should marry,” Druella said tonelessly, as if she were tired of hearing about it. She took a slow sip of tea and looked at Tom Riddle with interest. “I assume you’re Tom Riddle?”

Natalie felt him hesitate, feeling his surprise and satisfaction that Druella knew who he was, followed quickly by his annoyance at the Muggle name. He tapped a finger against her knee as though thinking to himself, sending a shiver through her. 

“I am,” he said.

This piqued Cygnus’s attention. He scanned Tom with something akin to fascination. Natalie felt his hand tighten around her knee, capturing all her attention. “Is it true what I’ve heard? About your relation to Salazar Slytherin?”

“Direct descendant, yes,” he said, in a tone that invited no further questioning. Silence fell across the room, save for the sipping of tea and frappes while Natalie attempted to control the insane urge to snog said direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin. From the way his hand sneakily moved from her knee to run along her thigh, she had the feeling he knew all about this urge.

Alphard Black finally flashed a grin around the room. “Does Mother know my competition is the only known heir of Salazar Slytherin?”

“Competition?” Lestrange choked through his ice cream. “Competition?”

“I was unaware I had. . . competition,” Tom remarked as though this was some amusing joke to him, his hand slid back down to her knee, where he drummed his fingers in a rhythm that made her want to excuse both of them immediately.

“As was I,” said Natalie, becoming increasingly unable to focus on anything other than the wizard sitting on the chair she was perched on. It was becoming more and more difficult to maintain her balance on the armrest. It seemed every force in the world wanted her to topple over into Lord Voldemort’s lap and snog him until they couldn’t breathe. “This is. . . news. I didn’t read that in  _ Charmin’ Cheers _ .”

“You don’t read  _ Charmin’ Cheers _ ,” Melania pointed out.

“Neither do I,” said Alphard.

“You know how Mother is, about you especially, Alph,” Cygnus shrugged, leaning back against the couch. “She’s still upset about that Mudblood you were seeing at Hogwarts.”

Alphard made an annoyed sound that thankfully hid Natalie’s slight coughing on her frappe as Tom started moving his hand further up her thigh than she thought he would dare to. She had to tense every muscle in her body to prevent herself from squirming under his touch.

“Susan Robinson was bloody fit,” drawled Alphard, “but we never actually dated.”

“Oh, so it was a one-time shag, then?” Lestrange sounded overly-interested in this topic.

“It was definitely more than once, if you must know,” Alphard rolled his eyes. Rosier and Nott made gagging noises while Lestrange and Dawson nearly choked on their ice cream. Natalie took the moment to shoot a look at Tom. His hand had traveled all the way up her leg to rest on her hip for a moment before flowing back down to her knee in a teasingly slow fashion. He had nothing but innocence on his face but his dark eyes held a sinful story. He smirked. She had to tear her eyes away from him to avoid turning bright red.

“You shagged a  _ Mudblood _ ?” Nott said incredulously.

“Disgusting,” Druella muttered under her breath, giving her husband a look as though it was his fault his younger brother turned out to be a delinquent.

Cygnus sighed, “I’m glad you spared Mother that detail.”

“I don’t see why it concerns her — or any of you, really,” Alphard’s voice grew hard.

“I don’t particularly care,” announced Natalie, all eyes flying to her. She struggled to avoid trembling as Tom’s hand once again started creeping up her thigh. She hoped her face didn’t look as warm as her body felt.

Druella sounded scandalized. “You don’t care that he shagged a Mudblood and his mother wants him to marry you?”

“Well, I didn’t plan on shagging him too,” said Natalie, waving her frappe through the air and casually resting her other arm on Tom Riddle’s shoulder. She made sure to apply as much pressure onto his shoulder as possible, to make up for how distracting he was being, running his hand all over her and completely muddling her thoughts. She felt a shudder run through him and hid her grin. 

“ _ Charmin’ Cheers _ ran a different story,” said Cygnus. He was looking at her and Tom Riddle with disguised amusement, and Natalie had the feeling he was the only one in the room who knew what was going on between them at the moment.

“ _ Charmin’ Cheers  _ runs hogwash all the time,” said Dawson, finishing his frappe with a loud slurping noise. Lestrange shot him a look as though annoyed Dawson had finished his ice cream before him. Natalie had to grab hold of the armrest she was perched on to avoid tumbling into Tom Riddle’s lap when he silently shrugged his shoulders and made her arm fall off its resting place. She was quick to return it to his shoulder, managing to brush her forearm along his neck as she did so. She bit her lip to avoid smirking when she felt him shiver.

“Wasn’t there a rumor that article was faked?” asked Rosier with a look at his sister. “Because there were so few copies of it?”

“Yes, actually,” said Cygnus, “I’ve only seen my mother’s copy. My Aunt Helena hadn’t a clue what she was talking about when my mother started on it at dinner a few weeks back.”

Lestrange perked up. “Helena Rowle, my soon to be mother-in-law?” 

“The same,” Cygnus nodded. 

Natalie cleared her throat, both to gain their attention and focus her thoughts away from Tom Riddle’s hand slithering along her thigh. “Someone. . . should tell Irma I don’t intend to marry Alphard.”

“I’m sitting right here,” muttered Alphard, only to be ignored. Natalie shot him a charming smile, though she had to quickly fill her mouth with butterbeer ice cream to avoid giggling when Tom purposefully tilted his head so some of his dark curls brushed against her bare forearm, gliding over her skin like soft smoke and giving her goosebumps.

“Is it because he slept with a Mudblood?” asked Druella, leaning forward and now looking thoroughly impressed.

Natalie placed her hand on top of Tom Riddle’s head as though to remind everyone he was also sitting right there, present and listening to everything that was said (and to push his teasing hair away from her before she apparated them both up to her room). He, thankfully, didn’t feel the need to say much on this topic, though she wasn’t sure if it was because he found the whole conversation trivial, or because they both knew that as soon as it ended they were going to fall into bed and shag the living daylights out of the other. “Because I’m dating the heir of Slytherin!”


	29. April 1946: The Semi-Final Match

The English national team stepped onto the Quidditch pitch located in the flat plains of northern Texas for their first practice on American soil, and immediately had questions.  
“Where, uh, where are the stands?” asked Ricky Webster, glancing around the wide-open area. Around the Quidditch pitch itself was a patchwork of green and gold fields spreading out as far as the eye could see. Piles of clouds hung low on the far-off horizon like distant mountains. “Where will the audience watch us play?”

“Do they let people watch the matches here?” Leonard Cadwallader’s jaw was hanging open.

“What’s all that rubbish floating about?” Dent squinted at tiny white particles that drifted through the air, encircling the pitch like snow, yet never entering the boundaries.

Seymour Mulciber sighed. He’d accompanied the team to the pitch to answer all these questions, having just met with the American team liaison. 

“The stands were put below ground in the 1840s when a tornado destroyed the entire pitch,” explained Mulciber. “On match days they’re charmed to rise up and float around. The ‘rubbish’ are some sort of magical insect that are related to wood lice but native to here, seeing as there’s no trees. Muggles think they’re pollen. Any Muggle that comes near here has an allergic reaction and immediately turns back. Saves them from having to constantly redo protection enchantments around the place.”

“Neat,” said all three Pottingers.

“Ugh,” Natalie groaned and sat on the ground, hugging her broom to her chest. They had arrived in the U.S. last night and she was still not used to the time difference. “Can we just practice or are there any more stupid questions?”

Dent made an offended noise. “Malfoy, I told you to take a Pepper-Up Potion-”

“I had two!” she glared at him through swollen eyes. “They didn’t work.”

“Maybe you’re allergic to the pollen like the Muggles,” said Ricky with a cheeky grin.

Next thing they all knew, Natalie had tossed aside her broom and pounced on Ricky, knocking him to the ground and holding him in a headlock.

“TAKE THAT BACK YOU BLOODY BASTARD!”

“Malfoy!” Dent dropped his broom and lunged at his teammates, trying to pull Natalie away from Webster, whose face was starting to turn purple.

“I. . . joking. . . !” wheezed Ricky, his Beater’s biceps useless with her punishing grip around his throat.

“IT WASN’T FUNNY!” screamed Natalie, trying to both wriggle away from Dent and keep her hold on Ricky. “DON’T COMPARE ME TO MUGGLES!”

There was a bang, and the three players shot apart, landing unharmed on the pitch. Mulciber pointed his wand at each player on the team in turn.

“I suppose it’s a good thing the Ministry is sending a few Aurors to supervise your practice,” he announced, “seeing as you’re liable to kill each other at any moment.”

“Well, that’s just Malfoy,” said one of the Pottingers.

“Shut up, Ted!” shouted Natalie. She climbed to her feet and snatched up her broom, slung herself onto it and shot off into the air. The others watched her rise into the sky until she was just a speck floating far above the opposing goal hoops.

“She got my name right,” said Ted Pottinger, who looked delighted.

“Glad one good thing has happened since you lot have got here,” said Mulciber and he shot a look at the remaining players on the ground. “Aurors should be here shortly. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an important meeting with Matt Lament about the location of the Quidditch Cup  _ Final. _ If you’d like to ever find out what we’ll be meeting about, I suggest you get to practice.”

* * *

The team had thirteen days before the Semi-Final match. With every passing day, their demeanor grew more and more grave, until it was the night before the match and not a single joke was told between them. They ate dinner together in silence that night. All knew tomorrow decided whether their Quidditch dreams came true or not. One by one, they had drifted off to bed.

Natalie lay in bed staring at the bull’s horns adorning the wall in her room. The team was staying in an old ranch a ways away from the pitch. It had been magically expanded to accommodate them. They each had their own spacious room, though spent the most time in the shared common area of the ranch — or the swimming pool.

Waving her wand, the time blinked at her in the darkness: a few minutes past midnight. The match was at noon tomorrow. She sighed and stared at the bull’s horns until they aggravated her. She flicked her wand at them and they vanished.

The wall now looked too bare, which just angered her more.

“Oh, bloody hell,” she said to herself, swinging out of bed and pulling on the bathrobe that looked like their game robes. Stuffing her wand into the pocket, she quietly stepped out of the room. Getting accustomed to the time difference was child’s play compared to falling asleep the night before the Semi-Final match.

Padding barefoot down the hall, she entered the living room area the team shared and found she was not the only one unable to sleep. Dent sat rigid on the couch, wearing the same bathrobe she did, staring into the last few embers of the fire. A full cup of tea in his hands, evidently forgotten.

“What happened to getting a good night's sleep before the match?” she asked, walking over to the fire and picking up the kettle hanging above it. She gave the captain a curious look as she conjured a cup and poured herself some tea.

“It’s different,” he said, showing no surprise that she also couldn’t sleep.

She dropped onto the floor beside the fireplace and leaned against the bricks. The fire flared up, now more than dying embers. “Because it’s the Semi-Final.”

“Yeah,” he said, his watery gaze not moving from the fire. 

They remained in silence for a long time. Natalie slowly sipped tea and studied the shadows from the fire playing on the stones of the floor. 

“Hey, Dent,” she finally said.

His eyes flicked over to look at her for the first time. “Malfoy.”

“D’you. . . d’you think any of our matches have been. . . fixed?”

He didn’t answer until she set her empty teacup down and leaned forward. “Dent. . . .”

“No,” he said, meeting her gaze. She read truthfulness within his pale eyes.

“No,” she repeated slowly.

“No,” he said firmly. “I’ve thought about it plenty, what with you being the Minister’s niece and all. Do I think there are a lot of gambles on us? Definitely. But I don’t think our matches have been fixed. Jack Lament wouldn’t have bothered putting together this. . . this mental team just for matches to be fixed.”

Natalie laughed. “I’ve no idea how we work as a team. I punched you in the face our very first practice and if I had a Sickle for everytime Ricky pissed me off, I’d have another fortune from that alone.”

“Yet we work,” said Dent in a fond voice. “We’re a good team made of good players. That’s how we got here.”

“Yeah. . . I guess I’ll miss it when this is all over. Whether it’s tomorrow or August.”

“You’re sappy tonight.”

“ _ You _ were crying before I came in here.”

Dent glared. “How’d you know that?”

“Just knew.”

He sighed. “Well, most of us will be stuck together after this is over.”

“What?” Natalie stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“Me, you, Caddy, Ricky,” said Dent with a grin. “We all signed contracts to go on to play for the Tornadoes after this train ride — even if it’s felt more like a train wreck sometimes.”

Natalie leaned her head against the bricks and shot him a devilish grin. “You’re stuck with me.”

“I’d like to be stuck with you and also have a World Cup under my belt.”

A sense of gravitas returned between them and they lapsed into silence.

“Hey, Malfoy.”

“Dent.”

“Weather might be rough tomorrow. You gonna be up for that?”

She grinned. “Of course.”

* * *

  
  


The weather did threaten to turn rough the next day. The sky was an ominous green and violent purple clouds marched along the horizon when the team arrived at the pitch for the match. A stillness seemed to hang in the air, making time itself sluggish.

“Oh good, we’ve an audience,” was the first thing Ricky said when they saw that the stands, indeed, had risen above ground for the match and were steadily filling with hundreds of fans. 

“Focus,” warned Dent as they were ushered into their team locker room (which was also underground) by a few American Aurors wearing large cowboy hats.

“I want one,” Ricky said under his breath, eyeing the hats and making Natalie slap a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from laughing. She and Dent had finally gone to bed at three in the morning, when they had started brainstorming countries they would flee to in the event they lost the match. Once they both concluded that they would feel obligated to kill themselves if they lost, they called it quits and got whatever sleep they could. Which had not been much for her. She had mostly just laid in bed, trying to visualize every possible scenario for how she could catch the Snitch today.

The team dressed in silence. Natalie almost left her robes untucked around her wrist guards, recalling how the Snitch had gotten stuck in her sleeve during the Portugal match. Dent had seen her internally debating this and came over to tuck her sleeves in for her with a wave of his wand.

“Something that stupid isn’t going to happen this time,” he snapped.

She grumbled, “you never know.”

“You’ve a better chance of getting struck by lightning.”

“Pretty high chance of that,” she said with a grin, “you saw the clouds coming in.”

“There’s an enchantment around the pitch, it’s impervious to weather.”

“Oh, damn,” she muttered, slipping past him and beginning to pace around the room; underground was the last place she wanted to be at the moment. She could hear the roar of the crowd above, which seemed to grow louder as time passed. The team watched her pace as they sat silently in their stalls, fiddling with their broomsticks and adjusting their robes. 

After a few minutes of this, Jack Lament stepped into the room, interrupting her pacing and commanding their attention with a clap of his hands. “Right, so match is delayed for a few minutes-”

“What?” exclaimed Dent, “why?”

“I was getting to that — a funnel cloud was spotted north of here. They want to wait to see if it drops nearby or not.”

“What the fuck is a funnel cloud?” asked Ricky Webster, tapping his bat against his broom. “And if I’d have known the match would be delayed-”

“The start of a tornado,” Jack said loudly and Natalie laughed.

“I thought the pitch was enchanted to be impervious to weather,” she said with a look at Dent.

“The pitch is, not the surrounding area,” said Jack. He sounded incredibly exasperated, with either the team or the Americans he’d been dealing with. “Lots of blokes still arriving for the match are getting caught in the storm.”

“Well,” Natalie sighed, shouldered her broom, and walked past Jack Lament and into the tunnel leading back up to the pitch. “Should be a fun show.”

“Malfoy!” several voices called after her. Outside the dressing room, she found Reginald Harlowe and Bertram Tarold speaking with a group of American Aurors. Two of them had let Harlowe and Tarold try on their cowboy hats. Once they spotted her, they hastily took them off and returned them to the American Aurors.

“Those look good on you lot,” said Natalie as she passed by them.

“Match is delayed, Malfoy!” Harlowe fell into step beside her.

“Yeah, I heard. Something about a tornado.”

“Yeah, so, where are you going? You’re not supposed to-” 

“Outside,” she said, pushing on the door leading to the pitch. It swung open and she stepped onto the sidelines of the pitch. Aurors, Mediwizards, and other support staff were swarming the area, behind them were the hordes of reporters, their cameras not yet flashing. Everyone’s attention seemed to be on the sky. Following their gazes, she observed that there was a twisting mass of clouds dropping to the earth just north of the area. A storm raged around it, lightning flashing from cloud to cloud and thunder rumbling, though the roar within the stadium drowned it out.

“You should get back down — oh, bloody hell,” Harlowe shook his head when the rest of the team popped out of the door behind them, Jack Lament panting to keep up. Ricky Webster was wearing one of the American Aurors’ cowboy hats and looked very pleased with himself.

“Blimey,” said Ricky, peering at the growing funnel cloud. He tipped his hat and attempted a twangy American accent. “I do bee-lieve that there’s a tornader.”

Natalie started clapping. “Ricky’s first non-sexual comment, everyone. Thank you, America.”

“Alright,” Dent waved his hands around and snatched the hat from Ricky’s head. “Cut the shit. We’ve still got a match to play.”

“No playing with broken ribs,” called a Mediwizard from the crowd nearby. It was the same Mediwizard from the Portugal match who had tended to Natalie. He was sitting on top of a box full of emergency potions with the Triple I logo stamped on it and was giving her a steely look.

She shot him a sheepish smile as the Triple I logo winked at her. “I promise.”

He did not seem convinced, but Natalie turned away to find Jack Lament.

“When will we start?”

He looked at the funnel cloud, which had rapidly dropped towards the ground and would soon be qualified as a tornado. “They weren’t exactly specific on what their protocols are but hopefully soon.”

“Ugh,” she groaned and let her broomstick fall to the ground, flinging herself down beside it and staring over at the rotating funnel cloud, watching the bolts of lightning jump through the gray wall clouds around it. An unbidden smile appeared on her face. She would have thought it a fabulous sight had it not been delaying the match she had waited so long for. A shiver went through her just thinking about it. This was the match that would determine if they would be heading to the World Cup. . . .

She hadn’t noticed her teammates had all sat around her, just as moody as she was. She glared at the newly formed tornado as reporters started taking photographs of the sitting team — only to be shooed away by a bunch of Aurors.

“Americans are here,” said Dent, tearing her attention away from the storm to spot the opposing team walking out of a door on the other side of the pitch. Like the English, they seemed very annoyed at the weather delay and settled themselves onto the ground to watch and wait.

“We’re twenty minutes past set match start,” said Dent after what felt like three times that. “What’s the bloody hold-up?”

“The crowd is trying to get in through the storm,” said Harlowe. “You mad a lot of blokes wanted to come see you play?”

“No,” said Ricky.

“Yes,” said Natalie.

“When can we start?” demanded Dent.

Jack Lament gestured to where the referee was hurrying towards them. Natalie leapt to her feet and the team did the same, staring at the ref until he reached them.

“We’ve got the all clear,” said the ref with a grin. “Let’s play ball.”

They stared at him, perplexed.

“Let’s what?” asked Dent.

The ref laughed, “let’s start!”

The next several minutes were a blur. The teams lined up. There were announcements. Dent shook hands with the American captain, who was also wearing a cowboy hat. He took it off right after, much to Ricky’s (and, apparently, the audience’s) disappointment. The teams hopped on their brooms and got into position. The balls were released. And the Semi-Final match began.

Next thing Natalie knew, she hovered above the play, eyes darting all over the stadium, searching for a glint of gold against the green pitch or the black stands that had risen into the air and floated around the pitch. The spinning tornado and the continuous flashing of lightning around the area kept catching her eye, but thanks to the audience (and she assumed the enchantments around the area) she could scarcely hear the thunder of the storm. It was the loudest match she had ever played; the crowds screamed, booed, howled, groaned, and shouted every single curse word on the face of the planet in what sounded like half of all existing languages. Sometimes these were accompanied by a player’s name, like when Dent made a nifty save against an American Chaser or when the American Beaters tag-teamed a Bludger and knocked the Quaffle out of the Pottingers’ reach.

The American Seeker was a tiny brunette witch who apparently had a similar tactic as Natalie, and liked to cruise above the match to have a bird’s eye view of everything. They passed each other several times, much to Natalie’s annoyance.

“Hey pretty, storm’s coming this way,” said the American Seeker as they drifted near each other about a half hour into the match. The score was 60-40, England in the lead.

“Is it?” Natalie asked with disinterest, not bothering to look at the other Seeker; it had grown dark from the encroaching storm, reducing visibility so that it was much harder to spot a tiny glint of gold.

“Yeah,” said the Seeker. Natalie tried to recall the American roster Dent had made them memorize. The names and faces floated in front of her eyes until she came to the picture of the dark-haired, dark-eyed Seeker. Her name was Sally Jackson; 28 years old, a graduate of Ilvermorny — Thunderbird house — played in the American pro-league for eight years.

“Do you normally talk to the other Seeker during a match?” she asked. Jackson had come to hover near her and Natalie could feel the other Seeker's sharp gaze scouring her.

“I usually flirt with the other Seeker, but it only really works if the Seeker’s a guy — and speaks English.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not a ‘guy’ and I don’t ‘speak English’.”

“You’re English. You’re speaking English, you’ve got a funny accent but it’s still English.”

“No, I’m definitely not speaking English.”

Jackson fell silent, Natalie could feel her bewilderment and grinned to herself.

“You don’t flirt with the other team’s Seeker?” Jackson asked after a moment, following Natalie as she moved to get a different vantage point.

“I usually focus on finding the Snitch,” said Natalie as the U.S. tied the match, to the delight of most of the audience.

“Did you find it yet?”

“Why would I tell you that?” she chanced a look over at Jackson. She was lightly sitting on her broom, staring right at Natalie. Behind her, the tornado loomed incredibly close. 

“You were right,” Natalie said, returning to looking for the Snitch as lightning flashed above them, illuminating the entire field below with a stark white light. “The storm is coming this way.”

“A Seeker got struck in one of our earlier matches,” said Jackson, sounding far too amused by this. “We’re in Tornado Alley and it's almost the height of the season. This happens a lot.”

“Struck?”

“By lightning.”

Natalie shot a glance up at the storm. It was bearing down heavily on them now. The tornado started skirting around the audience stands, as if being propelled away by an invisible force. But lightning still flashed in the wall cloud above. 

“I thought there were enchantments around the pitch.”

“There are,” said Jackson. “But sometimes they fail if the storm’s too strong and you fly too far. But don’t worry, that moron flew in the wrong direction. The Snitch is  _ always _ down below. He flew-”

Natalie whipped her head over when Jackson broke off to find the American Seeker gawking upward at something as if astonished. Flinging her own head up, she caught a glimpse of gold before both Seekers were shooting upwards.

Jackson had a slight lead on her, having spotted the gold first. Natalie clenched her teeth and urged her broom onwards, gaining on Jackson when the American Seeker flinched as a loud crack of thunder resounded around them, drowning out the roaring audience below.

The world turned black and gray as they flew higher, lightning their only source of light. Natalie quickly lost sight of the glint of gold and even of Jackson. Muttering under her breath, she slowed, craning her neck to see something — anything.

She heard Jackson mutter somewhere nearby, “I could have sworn I saw-” but a boom of thunder cut her off. It was followed quickly by a spine-tingling scream that had Natalie crouching against her broomstick, shivering as a funny feeling seemed to wrap around her head. The scream sounded far too feral to have come from Jackson. It sliced through the air and lightning forked as if screaming back, accompanied by a howling of thunder. 

Trembling with something that didn’t feel like cold, Natalie dropped in the air, eyes scanning the dark masses of clouds. The green of the pitch was just visible below. Jackson’s words rang in her ears.  _ The Snitch is always down below. _

Then why had they flown up?

She looked up as lightning flashed, and then down. And she let out a scream that was overpowered by another. The Snitch lazily flapped below her, oblivious to the chaos of the storm above it. 

Natalie turned her broom towards it so fast, she almost fell off. Jackson must have spotted the Snitch at the same time. She came barrelling out from Natalie’s left and slammed into her. Grunting, Natalie managed to stay on course as they jostled neck and neck, flinging out elbows and knees to try to slow the advance of the other. Lightning flashed, illuminating the Snitch that would end the match and determine one of the teams who would get to play in the World Cup. 

Natalie’s eyes locked in on the Snitch through the darkness. She would catch the goddamn Snitch if she had to throw Jackson off her broom. It seemed to be glowing, beckoning her towards it, begging her to snatch it out of the air. She flung out a hand as it rapidly approached, ready to seal its fate.

And then Jackson seized Natalie’s broom, knocking her off course and forcing her to grab hold of her broom to steady herself.

“What the-” her words were drowned out by thunder that seemed to be everywhere all at once. Natalie jabbed an elbow at Jackson, knocking the other Seeker’s grip off her broom just as they both reached to grab the Snitch — and missed. The tiny ball shot between their hands and rose up, back into the storm. 

“Bloody hell,” Natalie swore, shaking free of Jackson and maneuvering her broom back around. The other Seeker remained right behind her as she shot upwards, in pursuit of the fluttering golden ball. It was like a deadly game of cat-and-mouse. The Snitch streaked through the darkness of the storm, buffeted by the winds, always just out of reach as lightning darted around faster than they — and the Snitch — could fly. 

With a yell, Sally Jackson rammed against her as she caught pace. Natalie bit her tongue and tightened her grip on her broom, ignoring how bruised she would be from this match. All the American Seeker had done was say stupid things and slam into her.

Natalie swerved, trying to get away from Jackson and following the Snitch as it continued climbing, twirling around in the storm like it hadn’t a care in the world. She supposed it hadn’t. All it had to do was fly about, without a concern for the weather or the fact that visibility was practically zero within the layers of the wall cloud. At least it wasn’t raining. Thunder and lightning danced around them but the rain hadn’t bothered making an appearance yet.

The American Seeker screamed again just as there was a splitting crack of thunder. It seemed Jackson had also done a lot of screaming once they’d flown into the storm. The lungs on that girl. . . .

Jackson followed her again, Natalie rolled on her broom and just missed getting elbowed in the ribs by the American. Lightning illuminated everything for a heartbeat.

Both Seekers let out a scream this time.

The Snitch was right in front of them — shimmering like precious treasure. 

And then everything was plunged back into darkness with a shriek of thunder.

Natalie could hear Jackson somewhere to her left, yelling and swearing and flinging her arms out to grapple at where the Snitch had been. She had never been more annoyed by another Seeker during a match, and quite frankly, the American’s actions were giving her a tremendous headache. Some inexplicable impulse forced her to squeeze her eyes shut. Natalie slowly reached out a hand, fingers wide-open as both Jackson and the storm raged around her. 

Something cold and hard brushed against her fingers just as there was a deafening whooshing sound that seemed to encircle her, drowning out the howling of Jackson and the rippling of thunder. Lightning illuminated her eyelids a brilliant golden red — she caught a glimpse of every vein that criss-crossed through them like dozens of pathways leading off into the unknown — there was another ear-splitting, feral scream before something heavy hit her from the right, sending her spinning into blackness.


	30. April 1946: Does Anyone Know What's Going On

For a split second, in the middle of the match, Eugene Dent froze. He had just spotted the two Seekers, who had last been seen soaring up into the low mass of wall clouds, dropping back down to earth. Except something felt very, very wrong.

He veered right and flung out a leg to block the Quaffle flung by an American Chaser, kicking it up and away from the English goal. The crowd groaned as he denied the Americans another ten points, but their groan soon turned into frenzied screaming. His eyes shot back to the two Seekers. They were hastily descending — rather close to each other.

The pitch had grown dark from the accumulated clouds. The tornado was dissipating off in the distance now, but the remainder of the storm seemed stuck on top of the enchanted pitch, throwing an enormous shadow over everything. Lightning branched out in a hundred different directions as Dent squinted at the Seekers. They were practically on top of each other, heading directly towards the group of Aurors and Mediwizards on the ground. 

“Fuck,” he groaned to himself when he understood what he was seeing. The American Seeker was propping Natalie up, her blonde head lolling on the other Seeker’s shoulder as though she was either unconscious or badly injured. Dent swore again and there was a horrible dropping sensation in his stomach. They had lost. There was no way Natalie could have caught the Snitch looking like that. He peered closer, trying to catch a glint of gold in the American Seeker’s hands, but both of her arms were around Natalie as though his Seeker was about to fall out of the air.

The match paused as everyone in the air stopped to watch the Seekers land. Ricky and Caddy shot Dent questioning looks. He shrugged in response. He had no idea if the match was over. The Pottingers hovered halfway down the pitch, one of them loosely holding the Quaffle, as the American Chasers stopped beside them. A conversation seemed to have begun between the six Chasers, with a lot of shrugging, pointing, and shaking of heads. 

Once the two Seekers landed, a group of Mediwizards and staff swarmed them and Natalie’s blonde hair vanished. Dent desperately looked for something gold, nearly falling off his broom when lightning forked above the pitch again. 

The referee flew over and entered the swarm of Mediwizards. Dent couldn’t take it anymore. He abandoned the goalposts and shot towards the group. The American captain seemed to have the same idea. The rest of the players on the pitch soon followed.

He jumped to the ground just as the bewildered referee emerged from the group, looking like he had just gotten yelled at by a bunch of Mediwizards.

Dent stared at him, hardly daring to hold onto hope. “What happened-” 

“Malfoy,” it was not the referee but the American Seeker who said this. She stepped out of the group of Mediwizards, sounding dazed and confused. Her dark hair was wild and she had a wide-eyed, spooked look about her.

“Malfoy?” repeated the American captain in astonishment. “Did she catch the Snitch?”

“Either she caught it or it's still up there,” said the American Seeker, rubbing a hand over her forehead as though trying to remember. “I don’t know where the Snitch went. Worse storm I’ve ever flown in. Dunno what happened — it was so dark up there. We were chasing the Snitch, next thing I know, I’m almost thrown off my broom by something — could’ve been the wind but I swear there was something up there with us. A thunderbird probably — there’ve been sightings in the area. Dunno, but I ran right into Malfoy, unconscious on her broom. . . I dunno how she still managed to look that pretty up there, knocked out and all-”

“Jackson, this is insane!” yelled the American captain and Dent had to agree with him. The Americans’ Seeker sounded barking mad. “Where’s Malfoy? Where’s the Snitch?”

The Seeker dropped to the ground, looking faint herself. The referee tugged a Mediwizard out of the group to tend to her. Feeling like his head was about to explode, Dent tossed his broom aside and ducked around the referee and the American Seeker to see for himself. The American captain right on his tail while the rest of their teams tried to figure out what was going on. 

“Where’s Malfoy?” asked Dent, trying to push through the horde of Mediwizards.

“Back off, both of you,” snapped one of them. 

“What’s going on?” he demanded furiously. 

“Does she have the Snitch?” asked the American captain with just as much rage.

They didn’t receive an answer. Instead the group seemed to spread out. Someone shouted a spell and a tall, make-shift tent arose around the group surrounding Natalie, falling into place right on the pitch and blocking the view of the group from everyone else in the stadium.

Dent shared a look with the American captain, who he believed was named Johnny Winslow, before they both started sprinting, pushing past Mediwizards, Aurors, and staff, until they burst through the flaps of the tent.

The scene inside was complete chaos. Dent and Winslow stood in shock, taking it all in. Natalie lay unconscious on the ground, her blonde hair strewn all about, her skin pale enough to see the blood vessels underneath as Mediwizards hovered over her, muttering spells and screaming at one another. 

“IF A SPELL DOESN’T WORK, STOP USING IT-”

“I’M STILL NOT GETTING ANYTHING FROM HER!”

“HOW MANY TIMES ARE YOU GOING TO USE RENNERVATE-”

“THE CLOCK IS FUCKING TICKING HERE PEOPLE-”

“CAN WE GET A TRAINED HEALER IN HERE PLEASE?!”

The flap opened behind the two team captains and in burst several Healers. Dent recognized Fabienne Lestrange among them. 

“Move, boys,” she snapped and he and Winslow scurried to the side. The Mediwizards also cleared away to allow the Healers to approach Natalie. “What are we dealing with?”

“Not sure — could have been foul play resulting in some sort of traumatic shock,” reported a Mediwizard. “All we know is she’s in cardiac arrest. . . and nothing we’re doing is helping.”

A ripple went through the Healers and in an instant they had surrounded Natalie, acting almost as frantic as the Mediwizards had been.

“Try a Fulmina Charm,” said one of the Healers.

“We’ve already tried that,” said a Mediwizard.

“Well, did several of you try it at the same time?”

“No, that would be too dangerous-”

Another Healer interrupted, looking panicked. “She's not breathing.”

“Three of you try a Fulmina Charm with me,” said Fabienne Lestrange with clear urgency. “Dangerous is what we need right now.”

Three other Healers stepped up around her and began muttering something that sounded like “fulminora” and made sparks start to jump out of their wands, gradually growing in size. Johnny Winslow nudged Dent in the gut. 

“What?” he said angrily, spellbound by watching the Healers work.

Winslow nodded at Natalie’s hand, “look.”

Following his gaze, Dent caught a hint of gold between Natalie’s clenched fingers, followed by a sorrowful flapping of wings. Relief flooded through him, despite the fact his Seeker apparently didn’t have a heartbeat. They were going to the World Cup Final.

Winslow clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Congrats. That’s one hell of a Seeker you got there.”

“Yeah,” said Dent, now feeling dizzy. “Yeah, she is.”

“Still nothing!” yelled a Healer. The three others muttering spells over Natalie paused, eyes turning to Fabienne Lestrange, the most senior Healer amongst them. A shadow passed over her face and she beckoned one of the Mediwizards towards her. She whispered something in his ear and he darted out in a hurry. 

“Keep trying,” Fabienne addressed them, turning back to Natalie and taking a deep breath.

“She’s got the damn Snitch,” said Winslow, drawing all eyes to the captains. Several Healers glared at them as though they were trespassing a sacred space. Dent remained silent, avoiding their eyes. He had just wanted to know who had won. 

“He’s right,” said a Healer with a shake of his head. He knelt down and tried to peel Natalie’s fingers away from it but wrenched his hand back with a shout of pain. “Merlin’s ballsack-”

“Fleming!” snapped Fabienne between spells, “get out of the way!”

Another Healer not currently engrossed in muttering spells over Natalie pointed her wand at the Snitch and said “accio!” 

The Snitch burst out of Natalie’s hand, rolling a few steps on the ground before melting before their eyes, letting up a puff of black smoke as it sank into a pool of molten gold. Its wings fluttered weakly before falling limp on either side of what remained of it. 

Dent found himself staring at it in horror, along with most of those present in the tent. Everything was silent for a minute, as though the world had decided to take a quick break without telling anyone. Even the Healers paused their spellwork. The roar of the audience outside had never seemed louder. The tent was eerily illuminated as lightning flashed overhead. 

The flaps of the tent flew open again and the Mediwizard whom Fabienne Lestrange had sent off stepped back in with Tiberius Malfoy behind him.

“What’s going on?” demanded the Minister of Magic, surveying the frozen chaos before him.

Fabienne Lestrange turned, a raw expression on her face. “Tiberius. . . we — she. . . I’m sorry. . . .”

Tiberius looked stony. He pushed the Mediwizard aside and stepped forward to see his motionless niece for himself. Silence returned to the tent. Winslow covered his mouth with a hand, Dent found himself holding his breath and counting the seconds to himself. He briefly wondered if this was all just a dream and he was going to wake up at any moment and get ready to play in the Semi-Final-

Natalie coughed. 

Several Healers screamed. Tiberius flinched. Dent shared a wide-eyed look with Winslow.

She coughed again. A tremor went through her and she rolled over, curling into a limp fetal position. Dent caught a glimpse of bloodshot eyes before Fabienne Lestrange kneeled beside her, blocking his view. He noticed the same Mediwizard who had tended to Natalie in the last match was standing behind the Healers, looking as though he was very upset his contract had not mentioned anything about having to be in situations like this. Dent found himself agreeing with the look on the Mediwizard’s face. The shit Natalie put him through would put him in cardiac arrest one of these days. . . .

“Fabienne. . . .” began the Minister, stepping next to the Healer. “What just happened?”

“I honestly couldn’t tell you,” said Fabienne Lestrange, “but it looks like we just got her back.”

“Back?” said Tiberius slowly. Natalie hadn’t moved further, remaining on the ground and breathing shallowly while Fabienne quietly talked to her. “Back?”

“She was in cardiac arrest — her heart stopped,” said an American Healer on Natalie’s other side. “She wasn’t breathing either — I would have declared her dead but. . . something must have worked.”

“We need to get her off this field and to a hospital,” said Fabienne Lestrange, looking around at the American Healers.

One of them nodded. “Closest one is in Dallas. We can get her there stat.”

Fabienne rose to her feet and flicked her wand. A stretcher appeared under Natalie and rose in the air. Natalie flung a hand over the edge, reaching towards the melted Snitch on the ground and mumbling something that sounded like “-erdd?” Fabienne went to move her arm back onto the stretcher, but when she touched her robes, she pulled her hand back with a gasp and a muttered curse.

Tiberius stepped forward, glancing around at the Healers before singling a few of them out, including Fabienne Lestrange and the Healer who had mentioned the Dallas hospital. “Take her to Dallas. Several of us will follow as soon as everything is settled here.”

The Healers jumped into action, floating the stretcher with Natalie out of the tent. Dent watched her pass by, he caught a glimpse of luminescent silver eyes, surrounded by reddened veins before her eyes snapped shut and she grew limp.

“What are you both doing here?” asked Tiberius Malfoy, addressing the two captains.

“Uh,” Dent’s mind blanked.

“Wanted to see who won,” said Winslow in a gruff voice. 

Tiberius glanced at the puddle of molten gold that had been the Semi-Final Snitch and then back at Winslow. Stepping forward to shake the American captain’s hand, he patted him on the shoulder. “It was a brilliant match.”

“Thanks,” muttered Winslow, looking rather uncomfortable with the attention from the English Minister. “Uh, I’ve got to go see to my team.” He shot Dent a nod and stepped out of the tent.

Tiberius turned to Dent. “I assume you ought to do the same.”

“Um, yeah, right,” he said stupidly, his brain didn’t seem to want to work. He still didn’t understand what exactly had happened. “Um, Dallas?”

Tiberius waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get her transferred to St. Mungo’s as soon as possible, get out of this bloody country.”

“Okay,” he said as the tent vanished around them. Blinking, Dent studied the stadium. The floating stands had returned to the ground and masses of witches and wizards were streaming off into the fields surrounding the pitch; disapparating, grabbing onto portkeys, some even procuring brooms of their own to fly off through the sheets of rain that wrapped all around the pitch. Next thing he knew, he’d been tackled to the ground by a howling Ricky Webster.

“We won!” yelled Ricky and Dent heard Caddy whoop in agreement as he tried to push Ricky off him. They both wore enormous cowboy hats. “World Cup Final, baby! Taking my talents — and looks — to the national stage! Though I hear these American witches can’t get enough of me — the Aurors had to escort a group of fit blondes off the pitch earlier-”

“Blondes?” asked Caddy, eyes wide. Dent finally shoved Ricky away and looked around for his broomstick. 

Tiberius and all the Healers and Mediwizards had vanished, as had the American team. A mix of American and English Aurors milled about, directing the audience out of the pitch. Seymour Mulciber, Winky Crockett, another bloke who Dent recognized as Antonin Dolohov, as well as Natalie’s boyfriend — his name was Riddle or something — huddled beside the door leading to their dressing room, having a fast-paced conversation with a lot of hand gestures. Riddle didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the others. Looking somewhere between annoyed and curious, Riddle stared up at the sky where the storm clouds were still massed, the occasional burst of lightning flickering through them. He said something to the group; Crockett nodded and then Riddle and Dolohov turned and headed out of the enchantments of the pitch, where they quickly disapparated. Dent looked back at Mulciber and Crockett for a moment before Reginald Harlowe stepped over, holding two broomsticks. Dent recognized them as his and Natalie’s.

“You lot done?” Harlowe glared at them. “Can we get out of this blasted country before another bloody tornado drops down on us all?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, grabbing his broom from Harlowe. After hesitating for a moment, he grabbed Natalie’s and shouldered both. 

“Oi, kids!” he barked at Caddy and Ricky and they jumped to attention, turning away from waving and winking at a gaggle of giggling, intoxicated witches being ushered out by several American Aurors. “Let’s go!”

“Pottingers are already inside,” said Harlowe, leading them over to the tunnel down to the dressing rooms. Mulciber and Crockett watched them approach before moving away to continue their discussion. “Your stuff’s been brought back to Britain already. Matt Lament has a portkey set up for you all as soon as you’re ready.”

“Not wasting any time, huh,” said Dent. He felt like he was floating, everything seemed surreal — the chatter of the leaving crowds, the weight of two brooms on his shoulder, the darkness of the stadium and the flickering of lightning above, the low growl of thunder that seemed to reverberate within his bones. And of course, the fact that they were going to the World Cup. . . .


	31. April 1946: Nervous Tics

Lord Voldemort hated St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Illnesses. It reeked of death and decay, there were anxious Healers constantly rushing about in their flashy lime green robes, and it was teeming with far too many distressed friends and relatives of people who had likely ended up there due to their own stupidity. 

It annoyed him to no end that he was also there because of stupidity. 

He had warned her that he did not think continuing with Quidditch was the wisest choice, and what had she done? Gone and ceased all her vital functions in the next match. He was not sure if he ought to be infuriated at her for being so tremendously stupid, or impressed that she had somehow survived.

Natalie had been brought to St. Mungo’s from Dallas; nobody was sure what floor “we-don’t-know-what-happened-but-her-heart-stopped” qualified as, so they’d taken her to the fourth floor for spell damage upon the decision of Fabienne Lestrange, who had promptly kicked him, Antonin Dolohov, Winky Crockett, and Seymour Mulciber out of the ward so the Healers could work. Crockett and Mulciber had gone off to find Tiberius Malfoy and so he and Dolohov had wandered about the hospital, bored, until a Healer had yelled at them. They ended up in the tea room on the fifth floor. Dolohov sat across from him, staring into an empty cup of tea and furiously jogging one leg under the table in a rampant display of anxious energy.

“Stop,” he said to Dolohov.

Antonin looked up in confusion. “What?”

“Stop  _ moving _ ,” he said in annoyance.

“Oh,” Dolohov slowed the bouncing of his leg under the table, giving him a look as if asking if that was what he wanted.

“Yes, that,” he said testily, not entirely sure why everything was irritating him.

“Right,” said Dolohov, stopping completely now. He dropped his wand onto the table and began to spin it in circles, which was just as infuriating as him incessantly bouncing his leg like some fretful child.

“Stop,” he repeated.

Dolohov stared at him. “I did.”

“And now stop  _ that _ ,” he gestured at the spinning wand.

Dolohov stopped spinning the wand, but his leg immediately began bouncing again. Voldemort gave him a pointed look.

“Oh,” said Dolohov, as though he finally understood. His leg stopped shaking. “Didn’t realize.”

Tom shook his head and sighed, not bothering to say anything. 

“When do you think they’ll let us back in?” asked Dolohov, clearly not content with just sitting quietly. His eyes roved all around the tea room, falling on everyone present for a moment before moving onto the next.

“No idea,” he said, glancing to look at whoever Dolohov’s gaze had remained on for longer than usual. It was a pretty, dark-haired witch who couldn’t be more than a few years older than Antonin; her lime-green robes indicated that she was a Healer. She carried a stack of parchment and flicked through it as though heading back to her shift from a break. As she neared their table, Dolohov’s hand flew back to his wand; he spun it towards the witch, and muttered something under his breath. She tripped and dropped the papers, which scattered all over the floor of the tea room.

Instantly, Dolohov jumped to his feet and hurried to help her.

“I’ve got it!” he said, gliding over and waving his wand with excessive flair. The papers soared up from the floor and gathered themselves into a neat little pile, floating right in front of the witch.

“Thanks,” she said tonelessly, taking the parchment from the air and walking out of the tea room without giving him a second glance. Dolohov stared after her until he heard sniggers from two elderly witches across the room. With a scowl, he shoved his wand into his pocket and dropped back into his seat. Voldemort didn’t bother trying to hide his laughter. 

“She was ugly anyway,” Dolohov muttered, glaring into his empty tea cup.

“Right,” Tom said sarcastically. “You found her absolutely hideous.”

Dolohov’s eyes snapped up to study Lord Voldemort. Tom raised his eyebrows under the scrutinous gaze, not sure if he ought to be impressed or offended. Antonin Dolohov was quickly becoming a highly skilled — one could even say dangerous — wizard. He might have a flirty, arrogant demeanor but that didn’t stop him from having the knowledge — and nerve — to get dirty. Tom knew the value of a wizard like Dolohov. He was pleased Tiberius had him as his assistant, and even more pleased he had been tasked with keeping an eye on Natalie. Antonin Dolohov reminded Tom of a well-trained Doberman Pinscher — if Tiberius, or even Natalie, asked him to kill someone on the spot, he would do so without hesitation.

“So,” Dolohov said slowly, and Tom knew he desperately wanted to know something. “You and Malfoy. . . .”

“Me and Malfoy,” he said, throwing boredom into his voice. “Which Malfoy are you referring to, exactly? We both know several.”

Dolohov bared his teeth in a grin. “The one we’re here for.”

“I had assumed you were here because of the Minister,” said Tom, finding it amusing to make Dolohov work for his answers. “The Minister of Magic is a Malfoy, I believe.”

“I, well, yes, but no — I mean — Natalie,” he finally flung the name out.

“Oh, that Malfoy.”

“Yes, that Malfoy,” said Dolohov, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Are you and her — you two — are you. . . .”

“Have you forgotten how to speak English, Antonin,” he smirked, though grew vaguely irritated when Dolohov placed his wand back on the table and started spinning it again.

“No,” Dolohov looked annoyed with himself. “I mean, are you two. . . you know. . . seeing each other?”

Lord Voldemort leaned forward to rest his arms on the table and look Dolohov in the eye. His wand immediately stopped spinning.

“I mean, last I heard you two were so I assume you still are,” he hastily added, and his leg began bouncing again. “Just wondering. . . .”

Voldemort sat back in his chair and gave Dolohov a wry grin, which he knew disconcerted the other wizard very much. “You’re in love with her, Antonin.”

“No,” Dolohov shook his head with a little too much fervor, “no, no, I’m not.”

“What’s it feel like?” he asked, keeping his voice casual but very much so interested in the answer.

“What’s, er, what’s what feel like?”

Voldemort waved a hand. “No need to deny it. We both know it. What’s it feel like. . . to be in love with Natalie Malfoy?”

Dolohov remained silent for a long moment, staring down at the table while his leg furiously bounced.

Finally Voldemort sighed, “can you  _ stop _ that ridiculous habit?”

“What habit?” blurted Dolohov, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Being in love with Natalie?”

“No,” Voldemort laughed, “by all means, continue doing that. But stop shaking your leg as if you’re trying to stomp a hole in the floor.”

His leg froze. “Oh.”

“You haven’t answered the question.”

“Oh,” repeated Dolohov, now staring at a spot over Tom’s shoulder. “Well. . . her presence is. . . addicting, really. . . .” he continued upon seeing no change in Voldemort’s facial expression. “It’s like I never want to leave it. I could stay in it forever and feel. . . like I lived.”

“I see,” said Tom, disappointed with this answer. 

“But. . . what do you mean?”

“Concerning what?”

“You said. . . continue, uh, being in love with her. . . .”

Lord Voldemort gave him a slight smile. “Your love is your loyalty, Antonin.”

Dolohov stared at him, saying nothing, but the flicker in his dark eyes told Voldemort that they both knew he was correct in stating this.

“Which is useful,” continued Tom, “seeing as my girlfriend insists on landing herself in increasingly absurd situations. . . loyalty is what she — we — need right now.”

Dolohov went to respond but Tom raised a hand and stopped him in his tracks, nodding towards the doors of the tea room, where two familiar faces had just appeared. Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson hurried towards their table.

“My mother says we can visit her at eleven-thirty,” said Lestrange as the two pulled up chairs to join them. “That’s when she’s scheduled to wake up.”

“Scheduled?” Tom narrowed his eyes, the word gave him a bad feeling.

“Yeah, they knocked her out to bring her here from the U.S.,” explained Lestrange, dropping a copy of  _ The Daily Prophet _ on the table. “And then didn’t bother waking her up while they made sure she wasn’t going to die again.”

“Smart move,” muttered Dolohov, shaking off his nerves with the arrival of the others.

“You lot hear Finland beat New Zealand?” asked Dawson, practically wiggling in excitement. “England versus Finland on August fifth. I’ve already made sure I’ll get a ticket to the top box.”

“Is your daddy getting it for you?” Dolohov teased. 

“Is the Minister getting you yours?” Dawson fired back and Dolohov sneered.

“He might be.”

“Well, my dad is getting me mine,” Lestrange ruined the joke and tapped the cover of the Prophet. “You lot see this morning’s paper?” The front page was taken up by a moving black and white photograph of the American stadium, showing the tornado sweeping around the stands while miniature players darted all around the page and lightning flashed above. The headline was in all bold, declaring, “England Twists Through the U.S. and onto the Cup Final” followed in a smaller font with the date that Cup Final tickets would go on sale.

“Avery wrote this,” said Lestrange, flipping the paper open to read directly from the article. “ _ In a lightshow match, the English national team knocked the United States out of the run for the 1946 Quidditch World Cup yesterday afternoon _ -”

“Boring!” groaned Dawson, slumping in his chair. “Get to the part where it says Natalie died and came back to life and all that stuff the Healers don’t want to talk about.”

“It doesn’t just  _ say _ that,” said Lestrange with an eye-roll. Dolohov reached over and grabbed the paper from him, jumping to the part Dawson wanted to hear.

“ _ Natalie Malfoy out-flew American Seeker, Sally Jackson, to nab the Snitch in the middle of a thunderstorm, securing a spot in the World Cup for England. . . _ Eric’s right, this is bloody boring,” Dolohov dropped the paper to the table and started bouncing his leg again.

“Of course it is,” Lestrange snatched the paper back up. “Why would they print anything about how she  _ died _ ?”

“Because it’s exciting,” Dawson said under his breath.

“Can’t wait for you two to see her,” said Lestrange, adopting a high-pitched voice to mock them. “Hi, princess! Glad to see you’re alive, would you mind giving us a play-by-play of how your heart stopped? We just think it’d be fun to hear!”

“Antonin, stop,” said Voldemort, giving him a glare. Dolohov sheepishly smiled, pausing his nervous tic. Lestrange and Dawson looked between them in confusion. Tom didn’t feel a need to explain how incredibly annoying Dolohov could be when he was bored and anxious. The others began chattering on about something, but Tom grew distracted by a funny feeling in the back of his head that he was now very familiar with. His eyes flew towards the doors to the tea room and Natalie, looking very pale and confused, and wearing a bathrobe that looked just like her Quidditch robes, stepped in. She spotted them immediately, tugged the robe’s hood over her head and made a beeline towards their table. 

His muscles tensed as he watched her approach. The others hadn’t noticed her arrival, and he had a feeling she was definitely  _ not _ supposed to be wandering around the hospital, especially in the tea room on the fifth floor. Sneaking over to the group, she shoved the teacups, the copy of the Prophet, and Dolohov’s wand from the table and settled herself cross-legged onto it, surprising the other three. Tom himself was also surprised, not from her sudden appearance, but from the fact that while he could certainly see her in front of him, he could not  _ feel _ her. This kindled a hot anger in his gut, as though one of his possessions had been snatched right out of his hands.

“What the bloody fuck!” exclaimed Dolohov, leaping to grab his wand from rolling away on the floor. The tea cups had not shattered, instead they floated gracefully down to the floor as if they’d been charmed to do just that when thrown.

Dawson scooted his chair back in shock as Lestrange’s jaw dropped. “What are you  _ doing _ ?”

“Sitting,” she said. Her voice was raspy and contained a trace of raw anger, she looked around at them all until she met his eyes. He had to control the shiver that wanted to race down his spine. Her eyes looked empty, almost completely blank — he understood why he could not feel her usual bubbling presence. Tom felt his anger morph straight into rage. He wanted to  _ get out _ of the bloody hospital as soon as he could, and he wanted to take her with him,  _ now _ . Dolohov’s bouncing leg suddenly made much more sense, and he found himself adopting the same nervous tic. 

“You’re not even supposed to be awake yet,” hissed Lestrange, checking his watch and then looking all around the tea room as though expecting to be scolded. Only the elderly witches were shooting disapproving looks at Natalie for sitting on the table.

Natalie turned away from Tom and leaned toward Lestrange. She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him so their faces were inches apart. Voldemort watched fear dash across Lestrange’s face. She whispered her next words, but they all heard them clear as day. 

“The last thing I remember is trying to catch the Snitch. Next thing I know, I’m in an empty hospital ward. How the fuck did I end up here, did we fucking win, and what are you all doing in the tea room like a bunch of old women?”

This was news to all four of them. Tom had assumed she would have at least remembered catching the Snitch. Her anger suddenly made much more sense — which did not reassure him in the slightest.

Dolohov, Lestrange, and Dawson all shot looks over at him, as though wondering how these questions ought to be addressed. Tom moved to stand, because something about the situation was threatening to turn messy, but Natalie let go of Lestrange and snatched up the copy of the Prophet. 

“So we won,” she said slowly, flicking open the paper to read the article. “And I caught the Snitch. . . wait. . . I caught — wait — holy shit there was a  _ tornado _ — that absolute  _ bitch  _ Sally Jackson, she was so nosy — but how. . . .” she dropped the paper and studied the tea room. None of them dared speak, as though it would ruin something. With a slight popping of his ears, Tom’s skin started crawling; from the way the others shifted about, he knew they were feeling the same thing. It was as if her energy was slowly ramping up, like it had been switched off and was now finally turning back on. This should have relieved him, but for some reason, it gave him the unpleasant feeling of disaster looming.

“St. Mungo’s,” she said as if finally realizing something that had been bothering her for a while. “St. Mungo’s. . . .”

“Hey, princess,” said Lestrange in a soft voice, as though speaking to a frightened animal, “you. . . you were unconscious-”

“Yes, I  _ know _ that,” she snapped and rolled off the table, landing with surprising ease for someone who had been considered dead. Dolohov’s jaw dropped and Dawson flinched backwards.

“You do?” all four of them asked at the same time.

“Shut up,” she said and looked around the tea room again. Tom had the sudden urge to grab her and pull her out of the hospital before she voiced that exact desire. “I need to get out of here.”

“You’re not even supposed to be awake,” Lestrange began, but Natalie had already shot off towards the door. Voldemort wasted no time in pursuing her, the three others on his heels. 

The corridor outside the tea room was empty when they burst out into it.

“Where’d she go?” asked Dolohov in astonishment. “She can’t have disapparated, there’s an enchantment-”

But Tom had caught a glimpse of blustery gray fur round the corner at the end of the hall and took off. They followed the clouded leopard into the staircase and barrelled down several flights until reaching the floor with the reception area, with a lot of complaining and exclamations from Lestrange, Dolohov, and Dawson.

“My mum’s gonna be so mad,” groaned Lestrange. “And then blame me for this.”

“Why are we chasing a wild animal?” Dolohov asked cluelessly.

“How is she moving so fast?” huffed Dawson, “she bloody  _ died- _ ”

The miniature leopard shot out onto the bottom floor and ran through the reception room, darting under the legs of various witches and wizards. They followed, dodging around ailing people with much more difficulty. Lestrange and Dawson nearly collided with a wizard who had cacti as arms, letting out an explosion of swears as they narrowly avoided the prickly thorns. Tom remained ahead of the others, stepping out of St. Mungo’s through the magical glass window just behind the tiny leopard. She transformed back mid-leap and so when they appeared on the Muggle street outside of St. Mungo’s, Natalie made eye contact with him and he managed to grab hold of her sleeve before she disapparated away on the spot.

The two of them landed on the grounds of the Irish mansion she had not been to in some months now. It looked serene and untouched. A flock of crows pecked at the ground just below the imposing columns of the front entryway and a soft breeze brought a hint of spring warmth. The crows immediately took flight upon their appearance, and Lord Voldemort knew the placid atmosphere was not long for this world.

Natalie dropped to the grass at his feet and let out a groan. “ _ Where _ is everyone and what is  _ happening _ ?”

“St. Mungo’s,” he said, crouching down to see her better. Color was rapidly returning to her cheeks. “Where you’re supposed to still be unconscious.”

She looked up at him, gray eyes darting between his gaze. Streaks of silver flickered within them. “We won, though, right?”

“Yes,” he said, she closed her eyes and sighed in relief, swaying slightly until she fell against him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her, shivering as her energy rolled through him like a slow tidal wave. They remained in silence for what felt like hours, until the gentle breeze deadened and his hair started standing on end. He quickly glanced upwards to eye the dark, low-hanging clouds.

“What happened?” she whispered.

He needed several moments to think about his response. The energy crawling through her and into him demanded all his attention — and it was steadily growing. 

“They aren’t certain,” he said slowly, “they claim your heart stopped and you died.”

She pulled away and gave him a suspicious look, tugging out the ring around her neck and swinging it around in front of him. “I thought  _ you  _ couldn’t die. What are you doing here then?”

“Your heart stopped briefly,” he clarified, grabbing her hand to stop her from wildly swinging his horcrux all about like some sort of toy. A wild bolt of energy zinged up his arm when he did so, making his breath catch in his throat. “So they said. You’re not dead now.”

“Oh,” she said, eyes shooting open. She scrambled to her feet, dragging him up with her and let out a scream that echoed all over the grounds of the isolated estate and flattened the grass within her immediate vicinity. “Oh! Oh, my God!”

“What?” he demanded, trying to keep a hold on her but she was wriggling all about in excitement. She turned and skipped over to the stone stairway that led up to the mansion, then looked back at him as though he had just given her the best news of her life. 

“We’re going to the World Cup!” she announced with the most glee he’d ever seen expressed in anyone. But her eyes widened and she flung a finger towards him. “Oh my God!”

“What?” he demanded again. The very air seemed to be turning frenzied and lawless, he found himself getting caught up in the waves of energy that were rushing off of her —they now felt supercharged — and still growing.

“You. . . your feeling!” she exclaimed, “Remember? You must not have wanted me to play because you knew I was gonna die!”

He stared; her eyes were the widest he’d ever seen them. The wind picked up with a sudden gust, blowing his robes all about but not moving a hair on her head. Concern slipped into the back of his intoxicated brain. “I didn’t know that, I didn’t know you were going to die.”

“Do you have Seer blood in you at all?” she asked, walking back towards him and studying him as though he was an interesting school assignment. She even grabbed his hand and peered at the veins on the back of his palm as though they held an answer. He had to close his eyes for a moment upon the contact — it was as if he was struck by some powerful, overwhelming curse, his heart skipping several beats and his head buzzing as all his senses roared at him. His vision turned fuzzy and something deep within his gut screamed at him to run as far away as he could.

He had to pull his hand from hers and take a few steps away from her to think clearly. The action made her freeze. She stared at him as if she was just seeing him for the first time that day. Then she started hysterically giggling to herself like some drunken agent of chaos.

“Go,” she said, her voice sounding very high-pitched. She stepped back and tripped on the stairs behind her. Falling backwards, she landed on the stairs with a yelp — and they disintegrated underneath her, turning to blackened sand as though they’d been struck with a curse. A scream of wind tossed the sand everywhere, forcing him to shield his eyes. 

When he glanced back up, the grass around the stairs blew out as though reacting to some blast, before shriveling up to blackened crisps. Natalie had attempted to continue up the stairs but the same thing happened to the next step, it exploded into ruins and killed the surrounding green.

His ears popped so painfully, his head throbbed and nausea gripped him. The desire to run away moved to the front of his mind, but he was fascinated by what he was witnessing. The shrubbery on the grounds had been tossed up by its roots and was being flung about in the gale-force winds that had come out of nowhere. The sky had darkened further, lightning flashed above and Voldemort felt the distinct sensation of déjà vu flood through him — almost as if they were back at the Semi-Final match.

“Natalie!” he called out to her. 

“Leave!” she yelled, turning to face him. When he met her eyes, he was struck by a sudden feeling of overflow, as though there was a little — or a lot — too much of something.

“Leave,” he repeated, the wind seemed to carry his words to her.

“Yes!” she insisted, sounding frantic as heavy raindrops started to fall. “Go — tell them, tell them I need to blow off steam. . . .”

Lord Voldemort was not quite sure how this made sense to him, but it did. With one last look at the growing tempest, he bent to the screaming instinct to run away and disapparated.


	32. April 1946: Eye of the Storm

Tom Riddle appeared back on the Muggle street where St. Mungo’s was hidden. A Muggle woman carrying far too many shopping bags nearly walked right into him. He managed to duck through the glass windows hiding the entrance to the hospital before she did so, to his extreme relief. 

The reception room of the hospital was another chaotic scene. Adolphus Lestrange and Eric Dawson were locked in an argument with the wizard they had nearly run into earlier, who had cacti as arms. Antonin Dolohov had vanished and the welcome witch was trying to pull the cactus-limbed wizard into one of the wards while trying to avoid getting hit by the flailing cacti his arms had turned to. Everyone else in the lobby was watching the scene with amusement.

Tom paused for a moment, not at all feeling like getting involved in the cactus fight when his senses were on overdrive. Thankfully, Dolohov burst out of the doors leading to the staircase with Tiberius Malfoy right behind him. 

“Gentlemen,” Tiberius rushed over to the confrontation between Lestrange, Dawson, and the half-cactus wizard. Upon the arrival of the Minister of Magic, the witches and wizards watching the scene dropped their gazes and went back to whatever they had been doing. 

“I’m sure we can sort this out in a rational manner,” Tiberius said soothingly. The cactus-wizard reluctantly backed down with another retort of “no bloody respect from young folk these days” and followed the flustered welcome witch into a ward. Lestrange and Dawson sent him dark looks behind his back until Tiberius cleared his throat.

Tom Riddle crossed the room towards Lestrange, Dawson, Dolohov, and the Minister. Their eyes landed on him and Lestrange and Dawson both made noises of astonishment.

“Where-” began Lestrange but Tiberius cleared his throat for a second time.

“Not here, boys,” said Tiberius, beckoning them all after him. They followed the Minister through the doors and up the stairs, all the way to the fourth floor and to the private ward Natalie had been in. The walk did wonders for Tom’s head, his senses returned to normal now that he was no longer in Natalie’s presence, though he had a lingering headache and felt rather on edge, as though the windows were about to burst or the ceiling cave in.

A very distressed Fabienne Lestrange paced about the ward. Abraxas Malfoy and Winky Crockett sat in the chairs surrounding Natalie’s now empty bed, watching the Healer pace and trying not to look too amused by the whole situation. 

“Well?” demanded Fabienne upon the arrival of the others. 

All eyes fell on Tom Riddle. He gave them a quick smile, to assure them all was well — or as well as it could be. He still hadn’t formulated what felt like the correct explanation for what was going on.

“She apparated to Ireland,” he said calmly. “Wanted to go there. . . to blow off some steam. Her words.”

“I take it she’s feeling alright, then?” asked Tiberius, now that they were in a more private setting, he sounded and looked like he hadn’t slept since before the Semi-Final match. 

“Yes,” said Tom, only because he knew they needed to hear it. He wasn’t sure if Natalie could ever be considered to be _feeling_ _alright._ “Just a bit. . . jumpy at the moment.”

“Jumpy,” repeated Fabienne, as though this was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. The Healer looked just as exhausted as Tiberius. “Jumpy? I was ready to declare her dead less than twenty-four hours ago — and she wakes before scheduled, sprints out of the hospital, manages to apparate — and is now alone, feeling  _ jumpy _ ?”

Everyone fell silent, looking to Tom for further explanation. He relished in the kernel of dark pleasure floating through the back of his mind — in spite of having to flee from her presence, the effects of Natalie’s trail of chaos was exhilarating to watch. But he kept this feeling to himself, giving the others a simple shrug.

“Yes, that’s an accurate assessment.”

“I mean, are we surprised?” asked Abraxas, “we all know how she is.”

Fabienne turned to Abraxas, as though he wasn’t quite understanding the situation. “Abraxas, she was  _ dead _ .”

“And now she’s jumpy,” pointed out Adolphus. His mother shot him a look that clearly indicated she did not want his opinion right now. 

“Jumpy is fine,” said Tiberius, waving a hand to garner their attention. “She’s alive. My mother might not be if she hears a word of any of this. She doesn’t need the stress.”

Fabienne looked around at everyone. “Where is Domitia, anyway?” 

“The Manor,” said Abraxas, “Melania is keeping her there, away from all of this. . . mess.”

“Not a word of this to her,” announced Tiberius, meeting the eyes of everyone present. A collective nod ran through the room.

Crockett stood, straightening his robes and placing his hat back on his head. “Right then, if we’re all set here, I’ll be off to tell the team they’ve still got a Seeker. Dent’s downright furious we wouldn’t let them visit.”

“Pass the word along to Matt and Jack too,” said Tiberius.

“Will do,” said Crockett, sending a nod to all present before slipping out into the hallway.

“She really should not be alone,” said Fabienne, looking at Tiberius as though the whole situation was his fault. The Minister did not look happy with this.

“She insisted,” said Tom, secretly enjoying their befuddlement.

Tiberius sighed and pulled out a pocket watch. He watched it tick for some time, as looks were exchanged between Lestrange and Dawson, and Abraxas and Dolohov. Tom stuck his hands in his pockets and studied the room, deciding who he’d like to come with him to go retrieve Natalie. He finally settled on Dolohov or Abraxas, as those were the most likely to be selected by Tiberius — and Lestrange and Dawson would probably do nothing but be incredibly unhelpful and cause more chaos.

When Tiberius looked at Tom Riddle, Abraxas, and then Dolohov, Tom knew he had been correct.

“Give her five minutes, you three,” said the Minister, returning the pocket watch to the inside of his robes.

Fabienne narrowed her eyes. “Five minutes for what?” 

“Let off steam,” Tiberius vaguely waved a hand. 

Fabienne did not seem satisfied with this answer so the Minister nodded at Tom, Abraxas, and Antonin and the three boys quietly slipped out of the room while Adolphus moved to cajole his mother as she started yapping at the Minister.

“So where is she?” asked Dolohov when the three headed down the stairs.

“She has a house in Ireland,” explained Abraxas, “her father used to own it. She uses it now to. . . decompress.”

“Her  _ father _ owned it?”

“Yes,” said Tom, “and never mention that again.”

“I didn’t know she was an animagus,” muttered Dolohov, sounding impressed.

“Yes,” repeated Tom, “and never mention that again.”

Dolohov looked spooked but remained silent. Abraxas shot a look at Voldemort.

“How bad is she?”

“Bad,” he replied, recalling what being in her presence felt like. “I think. . . she’s overloaded, between whatever happened at the match and whatever they gave her to keep her unconscious.”

“What the bloody hell even happened during the match?” asked Dolohov as they walked out through the reception room. They kept their voices low. The wizard with the cacti arms had long vanished but the three wizards themselves attracted a lot of interested looks and a few witches’ giggles from around the room.

“No one really knows,” said Abraxas, “could have been foul play by the American Seeker.” 

“But her  _ heart  _ stopped,” said Dolohov, “that would take some serious Dark magic, it’s impossible a Quidditch player could have done something like that to her in the middle of a match.”

“Well, what could have done it?” Abraxas sounded rather rhetorical with his question. Tom decided to hint at his abundance of theories concerning the storm, thunderbirds, and her energy.

“Lightning,” he said casually as they stepped out into the bustling Muggle street.

“What?” exclaimed Dolohov, Abraxas looked momentarily startled before a ponderous expression came over him.

“They were flying in a storm,” Tom pointed out. “She could have gotten struck.”

“What are the odds,” Abraxas began but then shook his head because he knew who they were talking about. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Where are we going, exactly?” asked Dolohov, stopping them in the middle of the sidewalk. Muggles streamed around them as if they weren’t even there.

“Boyle Street,” said Lord Voldemort with a smirk.

Dolohov looked between him and Abraxas in bewilderment. Tom knew why. The name sounded so simple, so unsuspecting. “Boyle Street? What’s that mean?”

“It’s near where she is,” explained Abraxas, glancing around and preparing to disapparate. He stuck his arm out to Dolohov. “C’mon, you’ll see.”

The three wizards turned and disapparated away. Tom Riddle appeared with a small pop in the middle of a wide street in the Irish countryside. Here, estates melted into forest before melting into another estate. A few luxurious Muggle automobiles dotted the scene, the latest models, boasting the latest upgrades. Each estate possessed at least a Quidditch pitch size area of land around the mansions that arrogantly sprawled out, showing off their courtyards and rose gardens and fountains. Even the pavement of the street screamed money, despite it being drenched from the rainstorm that looked to have just passed through. Sluggish gray clouds were moving off in the east, allowing the sun to poke through and gleam against the water-soaked world.

Abraxas and Dolohov appeared nearby with two loud cracks. Dolohov looked around with interest.

“Bloody hell,” he said, “this is a Muggle neighborhood?”

“Yes,” said Abraxas, and the two fell into step beside Tom as he started down the street. “One of the wealthiest you’ll find.”

“I didn’t know Theia married into money like this,” said Dolohov, gawking at a mansion with a gleaming fountain that rose high into the air in front of a facade of imposing Corinthian columns.

“Muggle money,” scoffed Abraxas.

“Muggles clearly don’t know what to do with their money,” Dolohov peered into a Muggle automobile with interest. He pulled out his wand and tapped the door of the automobile as if to see what would happen. 

A loud alarm started blaring from the automobile, making Dolohov flinch and instinctively fling a spell at it. A jet of red light from his wand hit the automobile and a fireball erupted from the front of it.

“Shit!” said Dolohov as all three of them scrambled away from the burning piece of metal.

“Antonin!” snapped Abraxas, whipping out his own wand and sending an assortment of spells at the mess Dolohov had created. “Don’t touch the Muggle contraptions!”

“I didn’t know it would do that,” Dolohov said solemnly as the fire went out, leaving an enormous black scorch mark on the front of what had to be one of the most expensive Muggle automobiles on the market.

“If we wanted more chaos, we would have brought along Lestrange and Dawson,” Tom pointed out with annoyance.

“Right, sorry,” said Dolohov, sticking both his wand and his hands into his pockets and glancing at the houses. “So, er, which one is her’s?”

“None of them,” said Tom, and he continued down the street towards a particular dense patch of woods that separated one vast estate from another. Abraxas and Antonin followed.

Dolohov looked all around the street, on edge after lighting the automobile on fire. “Why couldn’t we have just apparated directly inside wherever she is?” 

“Because you don’t have access, so if you tried to apparate inside you would be incinerated. Also — we’re giving her more time to calm down,” Voldemort explained in a slow voice as they neared what looked like a large cluster of dense trees and tall grass.

“Why don’t I have access?” Dolohov sounded offended.

Tom pointed his wand at Antonin and muttered a few words only he and Natalie knew. A green light glowed around Dolohov’s head. Then he looked him in the eye and said, “silver Snitch.”

“Silver Snitch,” Dolohov repeated mechanically. The green light turned white and then vanished. 

“Now you have access,” said Abraxas, snickering at Dolohov’s awed expression.

“Wicked-” Dolohov began, but Tom stepped into the thicket of trees, had the brief sensation of being doused in cold water, before the grounds he had been on earlier sprawled out before him. It looked nothing like it had when he had been there before.

Abraxas and Dolohov appeared beside him and Dolohov let out a disappointed noise.

“I expected. . . something nicer looking.”

The estate was a scene of total destruction, as though a tornado had just spun through. Every single one of the steps leading up to the front entryway were destroyed — ground into a fine sand that had scattered all over everything. Bushes, shrubs, trees had been torn up and flung dozens of yards away and the lawns were peppered with enormous black spots of dead grass. The house itself looked no better. The columns of the front entryway had collapsed, as had the arches above them so that the front doors weren’t even visible. The entire west wing of the house had been torn off, wood, marble, plaster, and other debris lay scattered everywhere. Tiles had been ripped from the roof and lay at random. There was a sharp chill in the air and everything was wet — as though a torrential rainstorm had just blown over. 

A groaning noise drew their attention and they watched a heavy support beam drop from the skeleton of what remained of the west wing. It hit a pile of debris and cracked in half, sending up a spew of glass, clumps of wet dirt and other rubble.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have left her alone?” suggested Abraxas.

“She’s fine,” said Voldemort, strolling up the grounds towards the house. The atmosphere was much more calm than it had been when he left. In fact, in spite of the utter devastation, the grounds seemed relaxed, peaceful even. There was a refreshing vibrance in the air, as though nature had restored its balance. 

They skirted the front entryway, as it was almost completely obliterated, clearing away debris to circle the mansion until they arrived at the rear entrance. The curling bannisters surrounding the back porch had been blown off, but the stairs remained intact, though covered in wet leaves, splinters of wood, shards of glass, and broken shingles from the roof. 

The back doors had vanished, likely flung somewhere far away. The house was silent as they entered. Dolohov had his wand out and his head on a swivel as though expecting an attack to come out of nowhere. 

“Where do we think she is?” asked Abraxas in a lighthearted voice, as though this whole thing was amusing to him. Their trip did feel as though they were picking up a runaway pet.

“Kitchen,” said Tom, narrowing in on the perpetual ticking in the back of his mind. He stepped over a fallen beam of wood and headed straight towards the kitchen, the others following. The damage grew less catastrophic the deeper they moved into the house. Entering the kitchen, they came upon a serene scene that was so untouched it was almost absurd.

Natalie sat cross-legged on top of the long island counter in the kitchen that did not have a single mote of dust out of place. She had somehow changed into baggy joggers and a jumper with the English national team logo on it. A plate of breakfast food and a goblet was before her. She glanced up at their arrival, mouth full and a completely unbothered expression on her face. 

Voldemort laughed to himself as Abraxas made an astonished noise. Dolohov simply stared at Natalie as though she was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“What. . . what are you doing?” demanded her cousin.

Natalie waited until she had finished chewing to respond, which Tom suspected she dragged out, simply to bother Abraxas. Tom sauntered across the kitchen and dropped into one of the stools near where she sat on the island to soak in her presence, which was much more pleasurable now that she had blown off all her excess energy. The remnants of his headache vanished and he felt noticeably buoyant and confident in himself.

“Eating, obviously,” her voice was buttery and content. “There’s not enough for you three, so. . . sorry.”

“You’re aware you were dead less than twenty-four hours ago?” asked Abraxas, moving to stand beside the counter. Dolohov slid into the stool next to Tom, not having removed his gaze from Natalie. 

She waved a hand as though this was an annoying bit of information, then took a long sip of her goblet and shrugged. “Yeah. I’ll also be playing in the World Cup Final in August.”

Abraxas ignored her comment, looking suspicious. “Did you make that food yourself?”

“Yes,” she said, and Tom knew she was lying.

“You called a house-elf here didn’t you,” accused Abraxas, crossing his arms and looking at her with annoyance. “You wouldn’t have had to do that if you hadn’t freed Hiram.”

Natalie tapped a finger against her goblet to refill it. She glared at her cousin over the rim. “I can’t keep elves here.”

“That’s obvious,” drawled Abraxas, gesturing to the kitchen around them. “Is this the only room that’s not completely ruined?”

“It might be.”

“Riddle thinks you were struck by lightning in the Semi-Final,” Abraxas casually dropped this. 

Natalie turned to look at Tom. She raised her eyebrows as they made eye contact and the familiar rush of exchanged thoughts and feelings occurred between them. When she looked back at Abraxas, he was left with a sense of sweet tranquility, as well as the sudden urge to snog her.

“That could have happened,” she said offhandedly, shoveling a forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth. It was clear she wasn’t too concerned with the events of the Semi-Final match, save for that they won.

“Unless the American Seeker cursed you or something,” said Dolohov, leaning forward with interest.

“No,” Natalie shook her head, “she couldn’t have.”

“Then our leading theory is lightning,” said Abraxas. He cleared his throat and grew grave. “Natalie — you mustn’t tell any of this to grandmother.”

“Any of what?” she asked, becoming distracted by stabbing tiny roasted potatoes onto her fork.

“Grandmother wasn’t at the match, father insisted she not travel for her health. She has no idea you. . . died and have been at St. Mungo’s — and then ran out of the hospital like a raving lunatic.”

Natalie laughed, “oh my God, I can hear her screaming at me.”

“Yes, so don’t tell her,” pleaded Abraxas.

She swallowed her last bite of eggs. “I won’t”

“Excellent. Now, you’ve got to return to the Manor. You’re still under orders to not be seen in public.”

Natalie tossed down her fork and groaned. “Seriously? Allegedly, I bloody  _ died _ ! Can’t I be allowed to live a little?”

“Absolutely not,” said Abraxas with a grin. He sat in one of the stools around the island and settled down to wait. “Whenever you’re ready to return to reality.”

Natalie mumbled something under her breath that sounded like a high-pitched mockery of what her cousin had just said.

“What was that?” asked Abraxas.

“Nothing,” she grabbed her goblet, draining whatever was in it. Tom suspected pumpkin juice. She flung the goblet to the floor and it vanished as she vaulted off the counter and landed smoothly on her feet right beside Tom. Pulling him off the stool, she proceeded to fling her arms around him and rest her head on his chest as though hugging him was some sort of mandatory ceremony that had to be performed before she could move onwards. He was not going to complain — and wrapped his arms around her in turn. It was nothing like earlier. It felt like bathing in a magical spring deep within a forest, flowing over him with a deliciously cool touch. He wanted to soak in it forever, lapping up its ancient, divine power. 

Abraxas and Dolohov had moved to stand near the door, finding an assortment of household objects to be the most interesting thing in the world. Finally Abraxas coughed.

“This is cute and all but-”

Natalie tore herself away from him and huffed. “Oh, alright. Back to reality, I guess. . . .”


	33. May 1946: Important Things

Fleamont Potter could not believe he was actually there. His father mentioning his project to Tiberius Malfoy — the Minister of Magic himself — at an earlier round of the Quidditch World Cup had been bloody embarrassing. But it had somehow worked. A few weeks back, he had received a letter of interest from Abraxas Malfoy, the Minister’s son and joint-owner of Triple I. Now he was following a wrinkled old house-elf down the dimly-lit entrance hallway of the Malfoy Manor near Wiltshire.

He paused just before the door that the house-elf led him to. It was a beautiful door. With dark mahogany wood and a curling silver handle that reminded him of a snake. Which was fitting, he supposed. The Malfoys were known to be a Slytherin family. 

The door had a poster pasted onto it. Hastily slapped on the door, as though put there as a prank and then nobody had bothered to remove it. It was the Quidditch national team poster. It was very familiar to him; it was the same poster that was all over the wizarding world. The seven players of the national team, weaving around on brooms, an English flag as the background. 

But this one was a little different. It was autographed by every member of the team. Fleamont found himself gaping at it. It had to be worth a  _ fortune _ .

Snapping his jaw shut, he shook his head, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair and being reminded of why he was there.

A business deal. A very important business deal. On which, the success of his dreams rested.

Alright. Time to get cracking.

Raising his hand, he knocked politely at the door, taking care to avoid rapping his knuckles against the Quidditch poster. 

“Come in!” a voice sounded and he gently gripped the handle. It was smooth and cold, just like a snake. He pushed open the door and stepped in. A soft whoosh of air blew out to greet him, along with a scent that stirred up vague memories — but he couldn’t quite grasp at them long enough to recall them.

“Oh,” the voice sounded disappointed when he walked in — and Fleamont Potter felt his dreams shatter. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Oh, er. . . sorry,” he found himself staring at someone who was on the poster he had just been nearly drooling over. Natalie Malfoy, Seeker for the national team, sat in the imposing chair behind the desk. Dressed in black joggers and a red t-shirt supporting the team, her feet (on which she wore only fluffy blue socks adorned with silver Snitches), were kicked up onto the desk. She made for a decidedly relaxed picture, which seemed very contrary to the otherwise austere atmosphere of the room. 

He knew Natalie Malfoy was related to the Malfoys who owned Triple I, but he did a double-take anyway, just to make sure it was her. It had to be — he knew what she looked like. He’d seen her in photos, in the Prophet, even at the matches themselves. The witch before him had the same platinum blonde hair, the same stark gray eyes, the same aristocratic features. The only difference now was that she looked a bit bored, and it seemed odd to see her in anything other than Quidditch robes. This, and the half full cup of tea in front of her, was a sudden reminder that she was actually a real person.

“You can come in,” she beckoned him in with a casual hand gesture, as though they were well-acquainted. “Abraxas or my grandmother should be in soon. I’m hanging around for a while before the World Cup.”

“The World Cup, right,” said Fleamont, slowly approaching the desk. The room around him was full of highly polished wood, marble and silver. But he didn’t dare look around, instead kept his attention on the blonde witch behind the desk as though she had demanded it. His knees grew wobbly and sweat beaded along his forehead. He quickly wiped it away into his jet-black hair, not wanting her to see him sweat.

“Got your tickets, already? And want tea or anything?” she offered, dismissively pointing to another house-elf standing obediently beside the desk, holding a tray of tea and biscuits. Fleamont briefly looked around to find the elf that had led him there, but that elf had vanished. His eyes grew distracted by movement and he found himself staring at Natalie Malfoy again. She was spinning her wand around two of her fingers in a smooth motion that was mesmerizing.

He snapped himself out of the trance to respond. “Oh, er, no — I mean, yes, I’ve got my tickets, but no, no tea, thank you — I’m alright. . . .”

Natalie Malfoy studied him for a moment with piercing eyes. Fleamont was still a few paces away from the desk but he stood frozen on the spot under her gaze. He became very aware of his heart, thudding along in his chest at a rhythm he had never experienced before. He briefly wondered if the house-elf that brought him to this room knew it only contained the national team Seeker, not the owners of Triple I. Was he even supposed to be in this room? This felt like some sort of test.

“You can sit,” she pointed at the nearest chair in front of the desk. Fleamont stared at it in confusion before her words made sense.

“Oh, er, right,” he said, his legs somehow managing to lead him to the chair. He nearly fell into it, straightening himself up and adjusting his hair, his robes, his hair again until he heard her snickering quietly. Warmth rushed to his face and his hands grew clammy. This was ridiculous, he tried to rationalize away his reactions. She was just a Quidditch player, right? He had come here to make a business deal, not act starstruck over a Quidditch player. A famous, respected, well-known, attractive, pureblooded, insanely rich Quidditch player. . . .

“Is it windy outside?” she asked conversationally, peering at him over the desk with a sharp gaze. 

Fleamont got the feeling she already knew the answer to this question. “Er, no — a bit nippy, but dead still — er, why do you ask?”

“Your hair,” she raised a hand and ran it through her platinum blonde hair that was characteristic of the Malfoy line. When she continued, it was like she was giving him top-secret information. He gripped the armrests of the chair, spellbound. He had to hear what she had to say. “It’s awfully messy, you know. . . if you’re here to see my grandmother — or even Abraxas — neither of them are going to be too impressed with your. . . appearance. . . just so you know. . . .”

Warmth flooded his body with her words, as though she had just given him the key to success with his current venture. Natalie Malfoy was a lovely witch. It struck him that he liked her very much, and he found himself beaming at her. 

“Oh. . . funny you mention it,” he unconsciously started ruffling his hair. “I’m actually here because of it, believe it or not.”

Natalie kicked her feet off the desk, pushing her cup of tea away and leaning forward in the seat as if to get a better look at him. He found himself mimicking her actions, holding his breath in anticipation.

When she gave him a slight smirk, he realized he was still beaming at her. She laughed and said, “I forgot to ask your name.”

Taken aback at this, he leapt to his feet to properly introduce himself. He hadn’t realized he had forgotten to do so — he felt like they were already close friends. Hoping he didn’t look like a complete fool, Fleamont stepped forward and extended a hand across the desk. 

“Er, I’m Fleamont — it’s funny, I know — er, Fleamont Potter. . . .”

“I don’t do handshakes,” she told him and he immediately dropped his hand, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment, thinking he should have known that she didn’t do handshakes — it had to have been mentioned in some article about her somewhere. “I’m Natalie Malfoy.”

“I know,” he blurted out and sank back into the chair, not sure if he should be feeling relief or regret at being unable to shake her hand. “Er, sorry, it’s just-”

“My face is everywhere, I know,” she laughed and reverted back to their original conversation topic. “But why did you come to talk to Triple I about your hair? That’s certainly not the usual business that goes on here.”

“Well. . . my hair’s a mess, as you noticed,” he hoped he didn’t sound as stupid as he thought he did in his head. “And I. . . well, I’ve developed a. . . potion — to sort of, er, tame it. And I’d like to market it to sell — I just need-”

“A steady supply of potions ingredients,” she finished his sentence, leaning back in the chair with a grin. “Hopefully you’ve come to the right place.”

“Yes, hopefully,” he said eagerly. He didn’t know if Natalie Malfoy had any say in what her family’s company did but maybe she could put a good word in for him. He already felt like she had given him a sense of buoyant optimism about the endeavor.

“So. . . does this potion actually work?” she asked, taking a sip of tea. Another reminder that she was a real person, not the mythical celebrity the national team players seemed like.

Fleamont straightened in his seat, reaching into his robes’ pocket and pulling out the small container he had prepared for today. 

“Yes,” he said, overcome with the sudden desire to impress her, he held up the container for her to see. “It’s more of a. . . lotion really. I’ve brought a small sample with me to show-”

“Show me,” she demanded, resting her arms on the desk and staring at him with so much ferocity, he couldn’t look away. He knew he couldn’t disobey her, but this was not going as he had planned it. The feeling that this was some sort of test came to the front of his mind again.

“Well, er, I don’t have that much, I’d hoped to demonstrate it to, er, Mrs. Malfoy or-”

“They’ll be along,” she dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand. “I’d like to see it.”

“Er, alright then,” he said, unscrewing the lid of the container and scooping out some of the thick lotion. He could feel her eyes on him the entire time. He wasn’t sure if it thrilled or frightened him.

“I call it Sleekeazy’s,” he began his pitch, figuring Natalie Malfoy was better than no Malfoy and wondering if he had passed the test.

“Hold on,” she stopped him, raising a hand and tilting her head as though hearing something he could not. Fleamont paused, afraid to move a muscle as he sat before her, a glob of what he was betting everything on quivering in his hand. 

The door opened with a small click. Fleamont snapped his head over to watch another pale blond enter. 

“Abraxas!” cried Natalie with delight. “You just made it. Potter here is about to demonstrate his potion lotion thing.”

“Ah, yes,” Abraxas Malfoy crossed the room and took the seat just beside Fleamont with a leisurely air. “I was hoping for a demonstration of this. Let’s see it then.”

“Right,” Fleamont hastily nodded, the presence of one of the owners of Triple I relieved him — he hoped he’d passed.

“As I was saying — I call it Sleekeazy’s. . . its purpose is to tame and style hair. . . particularly bushy or unruly hair. . . which neither of you can relate to. . . .”

Natalie laughed at this and Abraxas cracked a small smile. Excitement flooded Fleamont as he began to apply the potion to his own unruly hair. He had practiced so often he could do it perfectly without the need of a mirror. 

There was silence until he finished applying it, using their faces as judgement. Though Abraxas remained stoic, Natalie looked somewhat impressed. 

“Wow, it worked,” she said with a laugh. 

Fleamont couldn’t help himself, he grinned, feeling exhilarated by her remark.

“What are the ingredients, exactly?” asked Abraxas, turning it into what it was supposed to be. A business deal. 

“Petroleum jelly, Asian Dragon Hair-”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” interrupted Abraxas and he turned to Natalie, making Fleamont sink back into his chair. “Riddle dropped by — and he looks serious about something. But I think Grandmother took to lecturing him.”

Delight blossomed over Natalie’s face. It almost made Fleamont want to laugh and do a little jig, despite him feeling completely at the behest of the Malfoy family. But her delight quickly turned to confusion, which made Fleamont grow uneasy. He wondered who this Riddle character was and why he could produce such a wild change in her. She scrambled up from the desk and bounded out the room without giving them another glance. Fleamont couldn’t help but stare, not sure what to think — or even what to feel. He had certainly felt a  _ lot _ of things since walking into the room.

Abraxas cleared his throat and Fleamont jerked his head back towards the owner of Triple I, taking a deep breath and continuing.

“Ah, yes, er, as I was saying — petroleum jelly, Asian Dragon Hair, Gomas Barbadensis. . . .”

* * *

Natalie darted down the corridor, away from the study and to the lounge at the end of the hall, which was used for more intimate family matters.

She peeked into the room to find that Domitia Malfoy was indeed lecturing a deferential-looking Lord Voldemort. Natalie took a moment to study him. The heir of Slytherin sat on the couch with his hands folded neatly in his lap as the elderly witch ranted. His hair was darker than Fleamont Potter’s and fell with a much more natural elegance, which gave her a visceral satisfaction that she could not explain. She understood what Abraxas had meant about him looking serious. There was an air of tension visible from the stiffness of his shoulders, as if Domitia was interrupting a crucial plan of his. But she hadn’t a clue what it could be.

“-racing around the world after random bits of whatever magical foolishness Burke is pining over at the moment is beyond me. Don’t know why my granddaughter helped you get that job. Don’t act shocked about that, I know you two are in cahoots with everything you do. You should be working for Triple I! Not Borgin and Burkes. It’s a shame, I know I could put you to good use, better use than my swindler of an Uncle. And you’d enjoy it too, much more fulfilling than convincing some pathetic scoundrel to let go of Slytherin’s favorite dish rag or whatever. And you’d be making twice — three times the money! And I don’t know what sort of old ring you’ve given my granddaughter to wear around her neck like some ancient trophy but I hope you plan on getting your life together before marrying her if you planned on doing that because you certainly do  _ not _ have any blessing from me if you don’t-”

At Domitia’s words, her hand had instinctively flown up to clutch at the ring around her neck. It pulsed under her fingers, and as if sensing her touch, Tom Riddle looked over to make eye contact with her. She dropped her gaze immediately, overcome by a sudden feeling of hysteria. That the frail, elderly Domitia Malfoy was verbally chewing out someone who had murdered his remaining family and terrorized Hogwarts with a basilisk suddenly seemed incredibly funny.

Clearing her throat, she stepped into the room. “Grandmother,” mumbled Natalie, trying to restrain herself from laughing. “That Potter bloke is here. He’s demonstrating his hair potion lotion thing to Abraxas right now.”

“Another poor soul hoping to get rich,” sighed Domitia. She cast one last steely glance at Tom Riddle before bustling out of the room, making sure to snap the door shut behind her.

Once her footsteps retreated down the hall, Natalie kept her eyes on the dark green carpet that furnished the room. The color always made her think of the submarine atmosphere in the Slytherin common room. Silence filled the air as she bit down on her lip and tried not to burst into laughter. She could feel his gaze scouring her with its usual ferocity and wondered why this visit of his felt fundamentally different.

“Why-” she couldn’t help a giggle and screwed her eyes shut. “Why. . . are you here?”

She heard him stand and walk towards her until he was close enough that she could hear his heartbeat and the whooshing of air in and out of his lungs as the horcrux around her neck started ticking faster than usual. He didn’t speak until she opened her eyes and peered up at him.

“To ask you a question,” he grabbed hold of the silver chain around her neck, tugging the ring out from under her robes and swinging it over her neck until it lay in his hands. 

A violent anger erupted in her gut at the sudden loss of the ring and she instinctively stepped forward to snatch it back. He moved it out of her reach and tucked the ring into his pocket, chain and all. When it vanished, she felt the same thing she’d feel if the opposing Seeker grabbed the Snitch before she could. Like he’d stolen something that belonged to her. Except it hadn’t been stolen by the other team — it had been stolen by  _ him. _

Things were no longer funny. In fact, nothing in the world had ever been funny, and nothing in the world would ever be funny again.

Natalie found herself staring at the pocket the ring had vanished into, voices screaming in her head and her heart pounding as the room seemed to spin. Every muscle in her body clenched up in shock. It was a ruthless act of treachery.  _ How dare he.  _ She would have been less devastated if he had used the Cruciatus Curse on her. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to jump on him and wrestle the ring back, or drop to her knees and beg him to hand it over. 

She didn’t understand why he had taken it from her. Hadn’t he said he wanted it with her? What had changed? Did he think it was no longer safe with her, especially with the World Cup coming up? What was he going to do with it now? Give it to someone else? That prospect was  _ sickening _ . 

She finally looked up to send him a vicious glare. There was a fascinating look on his face, but she ignored it over what felt like an extreme act of betrayal. All she was aware of was the vicious spinning inside her.

“Ask me what?” she spat out. “What could you  _ possibly _ have to ask me?”

His hand returned to the pocket. He retrieved the ring hanging around the chain and held it back out to her. 

“Marry me.”


	35. May 1946: Nothing is Easy

The next thing Natalie knew, Tom Riddle had somehow dragged her halfway across the lounge as a creaking noise filled the room, followed by an enormous crash. She instinctively dropped to the floor and ducked to cover her face and head. 

When silence returned, she cautiously looked up. The ornate chandelier hanging above them had fallen. Splatters of wax dotted a scene of broken glass, chips of silver, slivers of emeralds, and half melted candles. 

Tom Riddle was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her, unharmed. The debris from the chandelier circled them as though he’d managed to cast a charm before it shattered everywhere. When she looked at him, she caught a glimpse of the exact shade of betrayal she had felt moments ago. Then it vanished, replaced with the stoic mask he usually reserved for anyone who was not her. The screaming inside her head did not like it one bit. 

“Is the prospect truly that horrifying?” he casually asked. 

“What are you talking about?” she tore her gaze from him to gape at the remains of the chandelier — everything seemed surreal, like time had slowed. She couldn’t be certain what had just taken place in the room. “What happened?”

He stared at her as though astonished. She stared right back, equally astonished. Understanding flashed through his eyes and he sighed. “You. . . you destroyed the chandelier. And the windows. . . and ruined the fireplace. . . .”

She hadn’t realized all that. Limbs feeling sluggish, she pulled herself to her feet. A quick glance around informed her that he was correct. The windows had blown out, adding more glass to the wreckage within the room and letting in a stiff spring breeze. The fireplace looked like it had exploded, filling the grate with chunks of marble and brick.

Natalie looked back at Tom, he had risen to stand beside her and was staring at her as though he wasn’t sure what to think. She felt dizzy just looking at him. Her eyes landed on the chain still loosely clutched in his hand, the ring dangling from it, spinning hypnotically as though taunting her.

Still furious he had taken it from her, she glared at him and pointed around the damaged room. “This is  _ your _ fault!”

“How is this my fault?” he snapped.

“You took the ring!”

“With the intention to give it back to you!”

She lunged towards him. “Give it to me then!”

He stepped away, keeping it out of her reach. “Answer the question.”

“Answer  _ what question _ ?” she growled, continuing to leap towards him as he backed away, always staying just out of reach. Broken glass crunched under their feet, though that was the least of her worries at the moment.

Footsteps sprinting down the hall outside made her pause. She turned just as the door burst open. Abraxas flew into the room, wand in hand as though expecting some sort of emergency. He took one look at the mess and glared at her.

“What did you do _ now _ ?”

“Nothing!” she yelled.

“The place is destroyed!”

“Then I’ll fix it!” she hissed, drew her wand and waved it in an elaborate circle. With a high-pitched keening noise, the broken glass, candles, silver, and gemstones rose into the air and began spinning all about — until Abraxas flicked his own wand and everything dropped back to the floor.

Natalie whipped around to face her cousin. “I was fixing it!” 

“Are you mental?” he barked, “spin broken glass around while you’re both in here? Are you trying to kill yourselves?”

She froze. Somewhere within her rational mind, he was making sense. But she didn’t want to hear sense right now. She had a splitting headache and wanted to scream. As she ground her teeth, more bricks shattered in the fireplace, sending up a cloud of dust.

“Then I’ll fix it later!”

“What the hell are you two even doing?” demanded Abraxas, “why did this happen?”

Now, they both froze. Natalie wasn’t exactly sure how to explain why Tom Riddle taking the ring (in which he had placed a piece of his soul) from her was so infuriating, because she didn’t know why herself. She glanced over at Lord Voldemort to find him equally lost for words, which had to be a first for him. This sent a chill of panic through her — they had never  _ both _ failed at something. 

One of the upholstered couches skidded across the room and slammed into the damaged fireplace, making Abraxas flinch. Tom Riddle looked at it, then at her. He raised an eyebrow and glanced down at the ring still in his hand, intrigue flashing over his face. When Abraxas cleared his throat, awaiting an answer, Natalie blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“We’re, uh. . . breaking up.”

Her words were met with silence. She shot a look at Tom to make sure he knew that this was obviously a lie — only to find him staring at her with the most exasperated disappointment he’d ever shown her. She wanted to smack him for being so unhelpful. Where was his silver-tongued charm when they needed it? The other couch shot across the room, knocking over an armchair and landing upside down near the blown out windows. This time, nobody reacted to it.

Finally, Abraxas laughed. “That’s utter bullshit.”

Natalie had a sudden urge to stomp her foot like a child, which she immediately gave into. It sent pieces of glass scattering over the floor and made her dizzy enough that she nearly stumbled. The couch near the windows made a creaking sound and collapsed into splinters of wood, stuffing, and silk. The noise made her wince; she screwed her eyes shut and covered her ears with both hands — it wouldn’t  _ end _ . Her head was pounding and her heart was racing and she was breathing but she wasn’t breathing and everything was so  _ much _ -

“Abraxas, leave us,” she heard Lord Voldemort say in an urgent voice. Natalie did not see if Abraxas listened, as next thing she knew, she was on the floor on her hands and knees, staring at her fingers as they clutched at the carpet. Pieces of broken glass spun in the air around her palms, which quickly grew blurry as her eyes felt wet. She felt him clear away glass and silver and sit beside her.

“Give it back,” she choked out, blinking away the tears that had risen without permission. This was  _ all his fault. _

“I planned to,” he said.

“But you haven’t.”

“Answer the question.”

“What  _ question _ ? There was no  _ question _ .”

“There was if you were paying attention, which you obviously weren’t. Marry me.”

She was silent for a long time before beginning to laugh.

“What?” he demanded.

“That. . . you didn’t even pose it as a  _ question _ . . . .”

“I was under the impression I had already correctly calculated the answer before I’d even asked you, but then you blew the room up — because apparently nothing can be easy with you.”

“The room is your fault.”

“How in Salazar’s name is it  _ my fault _ -”

“Because you took the ring from me!”

It was his turn to be silent. She continued staring at the floor, watching the glass hover around her fingers. She could feel the gears turning in his head.

“I didn’t know it would feel like that,” she murmured when he did not respond. “I. . . I haven’t felt like that since. . . for a long time. . . . I thought you wanted to take it from me. . . permanently.”

“I want it with you,” he said quietly. “I’ve told you that.”

“Yeah, I know,” she cleared her throat and kept her gaze on her hands. “You know. . . you know we can’t exactly. . .  _ get _ married and all that. . . pomp. . . I’m a few months away from the bloody World Cup. . . .”

“Why do you think I’m using this  _ ancient trophy _ for tradition’s sake?” he referenced Domitia’s earlier tirade at him. There was a dark humor in his voice, as they both knew what the ring actually was, and knew nothing could be of greater value. “Publicly getting married would ruin our charm.”

She laughed, “yeah, you can’t exactly schmooze clients for Burke with a wedding band on. Very uncharming.”

“And wearing a ring as it’s meant to be worn might hinder your ability to catch a Snitch.”

“Wow, since when do you care about Quidditch?”

“I suppose I could at least pretend to care about my wife’s interests.”

She moved to sit up and look properly at him for the first time. His eyes were glittering dangerously. He seemed to fit right in with the scene of destruction behind him. “Hold on — I haven’t even said yes to our secret engagement.”

He held up the ring and dangled it in front of her. “You said yes the instant you put this on last year, seeing as you lost every shred of rationality as soon as I took it from you. Don’t you want it back?”

He was right and that annoyed her. She glared. “You’re making me want to say no and then actually break up with you.”

He smirked. “That would make Irma Black very happy.”

“Bloody hell,” she groaned and glanced up at the gilded chains that had held up the chandelier. “If we keep this quiet I’m still gonna have to put up with all that. . . .”

“Do you want to deprive us of that fabulous entertainment?”

She snorted and fell back to sprawl out on the floor beside him. “I suppose I shouldn’t — it’s much too fun.”

“And your grandmother won’t kill me.”

“Her bark is worse than her bite.”

“I’m unwilling to test that theory.”

“She’ll just be happy I’m not running off with a Muggle.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m overly pleased to be running off with a disturbingly temperamental halfblood.”

Natalie sat up and glared at him. “I can’t say I’m too pleased about the prospect either.”

He made an offended noise. “I am not  _ temperamental _ .”

Rolling her eyes, she dropped back down to the floor and looked up at the chains of the chandelier. “Sure, m’Lord,” she said in a high-pitched, mocking voice, raising a hand before he could respond with some cutting retort. She snapped her fingers, and this time, the pieces of glass and ornamentation slowly rose up from the floor and assembled together until the chandelier and the windows looked untouched. The couches and armchairs repaired themselves and hovered to their original spots. Finally, the shattered bricks and marble of the fireplace jumped up and reformed back into their pristine smoothness.

Natalie moved her hand towards Tom Riddle and held her palm out.

“This is so spontaneous. I like it.”

She could hear his smirk. “Nothing’s really changing.”

“Tiberius can marry us. I’ll swear him to silence.”

He dropped the ring into her hand and she was quick to return it to its resting place around her neck. Immediately, everything felt righted.


	36. May 1946: Merlin's Beard, They're All Attractive

Euphemia Travers glanced at the clock behind the counter at Slug and Jiggers Apothecary in Diagon Alley. It was almost noon. And he had never been late yet. Noon on Friday was her favorite part of the week. It was when the handsome young wizard from Triple I came in to take their records from the past week. What had sold, what hadn’t sold, what was expired, what would expire, what they were out of stock of, what they were overstocked with.

She tapped her fingers against the counter she had just magically cleaned for the tenth time that day and then ran a hand through her frizzy auburn hair, trying in vain to get it to cooperate. Time couldn’t move fast enough. It never could. She’d worked there for a few years now, and everyday was the same. Well, except when a customer dropped something explosive. That was always fun.

The jars of frogs eyes were stacked right underneath the clock. They always seemed to laugh at her when she found herself glancing at the time. She hated frogs eyes.

Five minutes till noon. Maybe he’d come early today? She only saw him for a brief moment each week but he’d been coming for nearly a year now, and those moments added up. She knew the exact shade of his eyes — a dewy green, and the color of his hair — like warm caramel, melting before a fire. Merlin, he was a handsome lad. A bit younger than her, but not by much. Besides, he already had a well-paying, respectable job, and knew a thing or two about magic. She’d seen him use nonverbal spells every time he walked in and out — to get the door to open for him. Well-connected too — his father was high up in the Ministry. Merlin, he was so bloody perfect. . . if only he could spare her a second glance. . . .

Tap. Tap. Tap. How was she supposed to sit still? She twisted a curl of her wild hair around her finger and wished it could always look that smooth. Then released it and scowled as it puffed up again. The hands on the clock still couldn’t move fast enough. Perhaps she could try to talk to him a bit more today. Beyond the usual “we’re wiped out of lacewing flies and utterly swimming in bat spleen.” Perhaps, and this was a big perhaps, she could ask if he would like to go to the Leaky Cauldron after work. Well, maybe she should ask if he was seeing anybody first. Can’t just assume the wizard would like to go on a date with her. He was handsome and rich enough to be engaged to a pureblood witch who had much tamer hair.

_ Ring _ ! The bell chimed and the door opened. Euphemia nearly fell off her stool at the counter near the register. Remembering to close her mouth, she forced herself to smile instead of grimacing. This was it, time to focus. 

“Hey, Travers,” his voice lingered through the empty shop. Nobody shopped for Potions ingredients at noon on Friday.

“Hi, Eric,” she greeted him as he strolled through the shop, black robes flicking around him. The triple-eyed logo of the company he worked for on the left side of his robes as always. She found herself staring at it as he approached until the gray eye winked at her and she tore her gaze away, tucking her hair behind her ear before quickly untucking it. 

“Slow day?” asked Eric Dawson, and she tensed. He sounded bored. Well, he always sounded bored when he showed up. She suspected this  _ was  _ the most boring part of his job.

“Yes, bloody slow,” she said, glancing at his green eyes. They darted around the shop before coming to rest on her. Her face felt warm as he looked her over.

“Got the reports?” he inquired, tapping his fingers against the counter, just as she had been doing before he arrived.

“Yes, here they are,” Euphemia reached down beneath the counter and retrieved the stack of parchment she diligently filled out every week.

“Anything to note?” he asked as she handed them over. Euphemia made sure not to brush his fingers with hers. She didn’t want to blush any further, it would be awfully embarrassing. And Eric Dawson was not someone whom she wanted to be embarrassed in front of. 

“Er, well, we’re nearly out of Siberian Snowderglass. . . so Mr. Jigger keeps raising the price of it. . . . ” she said and Dawson sighed.

“Yeah, it’s tricky getting anything out of the Soviet Union these days,” he said as though she already knew this. She did not.

“Oh, right, yes, of course,” Euphemia found herself blushing again. “Silly me.” Bollocks. Now she felt like a bloody idiot.

Eric rolled up the parchment and tucked it away into his robes. Euphemia straightened up — he was leaving. And she already felt like a complete dunderhead, so she may as well go for it all. If she messed up any further, she could just leave the country and never come back.

“Hey, er, Eric,” she twisted a few of her curls around her fingers again.

“Yeah?” he asked, “was there anything else?”

“Um, yes, I was wondering if you wanted to go to the Leaky for a drink later? If you don’t have any other, uh, engagements. . . .”

He stared at her for what felt like forever. Euphemia felt her cheeks grow warm again and she released her hair so it puffed up and hid part of her face.  _ Idiot.  _ She shouldn’t have asked. He checked his watch and her heart sank. She should have known — people like Eric Dawson didn’t have time for people like Euphemia Travers.

Finally, he shrugged, which was somehow more disappointing than if he had just said no. “I actually planned to head there right after this. Meeting a few of my mates, if you want to join.”

“Oh,” Euphemia fumbled for words. That was certainly not the response she had expected. Panicking, she blurted out her first thought. “I, um, actually have to stay here till close-”

He looked around the empty shop. “Why? Nobody’s here.”

“Well, Mr. Jigger wanted me to-”

Eric Dawson waved a hand through the air. “Jigger’s an old coot. You can always tell him that me or Abraxas Malfoy advised you to close early.”

“I can?” Her eyes widened, feeling a sudden appreciation for Triple I. Not only did they always make sure the apothecary was well-stocked with the freshest, highest quality ingredients, but now they were giving her a way to stick it to her cranky boss. 

“Yeah, of course,” he said with another shrug, “Jigger’s petrified we’ll tell the Ministry that he was selling mislabelled baneberries for a week straight and get him shut down.”

Euphemia dropped her gaze. “You found out about that?”

He laughed and patted his robes, where he had tucked the parchment. “Thanks to you.”

She murmured a small “you’re welcome” and he turned to head out of the shop.

“Invite’s still open,” he called before the door whooshed shut behind him. The second he vanished, Euphemia jumped up and ran all about the shop, closing up for the day. She secured the register, scribbled out a quick note to Jigger saying that Eric Dawson from Triple I had told her to close early for the day, sent the frogs eyes the bird, made sure every jar, barrel, and box was secure, and burst out of the shop and into Diagon Alley. The players on the poster of the English national team pasted on the door waved at her as she locked the door and lowered the shades. She tried to smooth her hair one last time, using the shop windows to see her reflection. Her wild curls did not want to listen, but she couldn’t bring herself to be upset about it. She could not believe her luck. Not only had Eric Dawson gotten her out of work early, but he’d invited her to the Leaky himself!

Heart thumping wildly, she practically skipped down Diagon Alley, waving a quick hello to Quinn Bulstrode as she passed the witch, who laughed at how thrilled she looked.

Euphemia slowed when she approached the Leaky Cauldron. Dawson’s words churned in her mind. He said he was meeting a few of his mates there — she wasn’t sure who his mates were, or how many he intended to meet. She knew of Adolphus Lestrange — he’d come into Slug and Jiggers on a few occasions — but Dawson had definitely said  _ mates _ , which meant more than just one other person. . . .

But she was too far in to quit now. Trying one last time to make her unruly auburn curls a little less. . . chaotic. . . she steeled herself, and stepped into the dim atmosphere of the Leaky. She blinked for a few moments as her eyes adjusted to the weak lighting, before anxiously looking around, trying to spot a glimpse of Eric Dawson’s caramel-colored hair. 

Her eyes finally landed on him in the far corner of the pub. He was sitting with a handful of wizards. She recognized Adolphus Lestrange first. Two others looked somewhat familiar. She had a suspicion the grinning blond was a Rosier, and the darker, conniving-looking one was a Nott. Euphemia had to swallow back her nervousness at seeing all these wizards. She had no idea  _ all  _ of Eric Dawson’s mates were so bloody attractive. There was an aura of dark confidence surrounding them, she couldn’t help but stare, and with a quick look around, noticed she was not alone in finding her eyes being inexplicably drawn to this group. There was just something about them that was almost. . . sinister.

There was one other wizard sitting among this group who appeared rather uncomfortable. He had jet-black hair that looked as though it had been gelled, and he laughed rather loudly at the jokes being told. The only quality he possessed to indicate he belonged to this group was his looks. Euphemia noted that this wizard was also downright attractive, despite his nervous demeanor.

“Oi!” she flinched when Dawson’s voice drifted through the pub. “Travers! You actually decided to come!”

Euphemia meekly approached the table, reminding herself that she was a Travers and that her aunt, Portia, had been married to the Minister of Magic himself. 

“Hello,” she greeted the table with a smile, trying not to blush under the curious gazes of all the good-looking wizards. She must have failed because Adolphus Lestrange snickered into his goblet.

“Potter, move over and make room for Travers,” said Dawson, and the nervous looking bloke quickly shuffled over. Euphemia took the seat and gave the wizard named Potter a smile — and was surprised to find that he turned a cherry-red color.

“Eric, since when do you invite  _ girls _ to hang out with us?” asked the blond wizard who Euphemia believed was Rosier.

“She asked,” Dawson shrugged. Euphemia stared at a spot on the table, mortified that he had said this. “And we’re technically on business.”

“Oh,” she squeaked, now wanting nothing more than to melt into her seat. “Should I not have come, then?”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Dawson assured her. “It’s business but it’s the fun kind.”

Euphemia did not know what he meant by this but decided not to ask. He sounded very sure of himself. 

“You can at least introduce the lass,” Adolphus Lestrange rolled his eyes and stuck a hand over the Potter boy. Euphemia carefully shook it. “I’m Adolphus Lestrange. I think we’ve met once — you work at Slug and Jiggers, right?”

“That’s right,” she said, trying not to crowd the wizard named Potter. “I’m Euphemia Travers.”

“Rosier,” the blond flung his hand over the table and she shook his next. “Evan Rosier — and this is Zacharias Nott,” he tilted his head to the cunning looking wizard beside him.

“Pleasure to meet you all,” she said after shaking their hands. She glanced at the last wizard beside her, who had responded to Potter but had remained silent during the introductions.

“Oh, this is Fleamont Potter,” said Dawson, and Fleamont awkwardly shoved his hand into hers for a quick handshake, muttering a quick hello. His hand was rather clammy and he pulled it away as soon as he could. For some reason, Euphemia found herself blushing.

“We’ve taken him out to see if his invention holds up,” Lestrange explained with a gesture at Fleamont Potter’s gelled hair. 

Evan Rosier sniggered and mumbled something into his goblet that sounded like, “and to see if he’s sucking up to the Malfoys or not.” Zacharias Nott elbowed him and Rosier spluttered and coughed, shooting a glare at Nott. 

Lumbering out of his seat, Rosier muttered, “I’ll get you a drink, Travers. . . because Eric’s too stupid to. . . .”

Now convinced her face was on fire, and trying to avoid looking at Eric Dawson, Euphemia glanced at Potter’s hair, thankful for a distraction. “Er, sorry, but his  _ hair  _ is his invention?”

“No,” Fleamont Potter spoke audibly for the first time, gesturing to a small container on the table between all the drinks. “It’s a lotion, really.”

“A — a lotion?”

“It apparently tamed his hair,” said Lestrange with a snort.

“It did,” said Potter, clearing his throat. “I’ve usually got awful, really terrible hair — this tames it. I call it Sleekeazy’s.”

The other boys laughed at the name and Rosier returned with a goblet of butterbeer for her.

“Tom wouldn’t let me order anymore Firewhiskey for our table,” he sheepishly explained, pushing the goblet towards her. She thanked him anyway and took a slow sip, enjoying the flavor before her eyes flew back to a flushed Fleamont Potter. She found his awkwardness a welcome relief among the other wizards, who all seemed so overbearingly confident with themselves it made her feel unworthy to sit with them. Even Eric Dawson was snickering under his breath with Adolphus Lestrange. And while all the wizards at the table could be described as attractive, Potter was the only one she would attach the word  _ cute  _ to. 

“It doesn’t look awful right now,” she pointed out his sleek-looking black hair.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Nott agreed, raising his goblet towards her.

“Because I’ve used some of this,” said Potter, tapping the container. “I demonstrated it earlier to Abraxas and Domitia Malfoy.”

“Sure, but none of us saw the demonstration,” said Lestrange. He was speaking to Potter but looking at Dawson. “As we’ve been telling you.”

When Rosier and Nott murmured their agreement on this, Potter hesitated, then unscrewed the cap of the container and peered inside. “Well, I might have enough for another, partial demonstration. . . but I’d need a volunteer-”

“Excellent!” Lestrange dropped his goblet onto the table. “I volunteer Eric!”

Dawson’s hand flew to his caramel curls, and Euphemia could not blame him for his aversion to this idea. “No! Absolutely not!”

“Why can’t I do it?” demanded Rosier.

Nott snorted, “are you mad? Quinn would kill you if you ruined your ‘luscious blond locks’.” 

Euphemia blinked in surprise at this. She was not sure how many Quinns existed but she had a feeling they were talking about Quinn Bulstrode — which meant that Rosier was the Evan that Quinn Bulstrode was always raving about when the girls occasionally got ice cream together on their breaks.

When this seemed to have a deep impact on Rosier, she knew she had assumed correctly. He looked distressed for a moment before using it as an opportunity to elbow Nott back. 

“You do it then!”

“No,” said Nott with a furious shake of his head, “Pam would kill  _ me _ .”

“Which is why,” Lestrange said loudly, regaining the spotlight, “it makes the most sense for Eric to be the demonstration. He’s the only one who  _ hasn’t  _ got a girlfriend — or fiancée, in my case — who would be mad if we ruined our hair.”

“It won’t ruin your hair,” Potter began, but the others ignored him. Euphemia was silently thrilled to find out that Eric Dawson was single and apparently, available. 

“Oh, are you and Savanna engaged?” asked Rosier with immense sarcasm, “I had  _ no idea _ .”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder, Adolphus,” said Nott, “I was starting to forget. It’s been like twenty minutes since you last told us.”

“Ahem, did he remind you all that I’m going to be the best man?” Dawson asked with incredible arrogance. It took Euphemia by surprise, she had never heard him speak in such a tone.

“Nope, he definitely forgot that part,” said Rosier. 

“Yeah, don’t remember hearing anything about that,” said Nott.

Lestrange clapped his hands. “Eric should be the demonstration!”

Euphemia let out a small cough and raised her hand, feeling gutsy. “I wouldn’t mind. . . .” she ran a hand through her frizzy auburn curls. “Being the demonstration. . . .”

Fleamont Potter was staring at her in astonishment. The others glanced between themselves until a consensus seemed to have been reached.

“Alright then,” said Lestrange, sounding oddly amused. “Travers is willing, so go ahead, Potter. Show us what you’ve got.”

Potter looked nervous, but Euphemia pulled a few of her frizzy curls forward. 

“Um, how exactly does it work?” she asked, glancing at the container of lotion. 

“Well,” Potter wiped a palm over his forehead, “there’s a specific hand motion that you have to do. . . .”

“Oh, okay,” she said and held out her curls towards him. His mouth opened as if to say something, but he quickly snapped it shut and grabbed the container of lotion. He scooped some out and the whole table watched it quiver on his hand before he slowly picked up Euphemia’s auburn curls.

Euphemia felt her own cheeks grow warm as a pink tinge spread across Potter’s face. He carefully began rubbing the lotion into her curls in a circular fashion and she wondered if his hands always shook as much as they were now. She studied the smattering of freckles across his nose and the flecks of green in his hazel eyes and realized that they were nearly the same color as Eric Dawson’s eyes. She tore her gaze from Fleamont and peeked over at Eric Dawson to find him checking his watch. Disappointment flashed through her as she was reminded of her earlier thought — that someone like Eric Dawson would never have time for someone like her. 

A tugging on her hair drew her attention back to Potter.

“Sorry!” he quickly said, “did I — did I, er, hurt you?”

“No,” she smiled at him and almost giggled when he blushed even deeper. A round of snickers swept the table that then made them both blush.

“There,” Potter said, and Euphemia looked down. A few of her normally poofy curls were now smooth and sleek, flowing over his fingers like silk. He dropped them, she noted, rather reluctantly. 

“Wow,” she whispered, amazed by the potency of this lotion — this was how she wished her hair would look all the time. . . she peeked over at the empty container and wondered if Fleamont would consider selling her any.

Even Adolphus Lestrange couldn’t help himself. “Bloody hell,” he said, gaping at the change in Euphemia’s curls. The contrast between the few sleek curls and the rest of her frizzy hair was astounding. Shocked murmurs ran around the table; Euphemia noted with delight that even Dawson looked impressed, though this was dampered by her realization that he was probably more impressed with Potter’s invention than with her hair.

“I’m sold,” announced Rosier, raising his drink in Fleamont’s direction. Euphemia assumed this meant that Potter was not just “sucking up to the Malfoys.”

“What did the Malfoys tell you?” asked Nott, tapping on his nose. 

“That they’d consider it and get back to me,” said Potter. He sounded much more confident with their praises. “So, er, this was all a test, right? Like with Natalie earlier and all that?”

“Natalie?” the entire table echoed the name, making Euphemia’s head spin. She wasn’t sure who to look at, so she peered over at Eric Dawson. He had perked up, a grin on his face. 

“What did she do to you?” asked Dawson, obviously amused about something. He and Lestrange seemed to be kicking each other under the table while Nott and Rosier sniggered like they had a secret. Potter returned to looking uneasy at their reactions. Euphemia had to agree; the group’s behavior was unnerving. How bloody fit they all were made it even worse.

“Er, nothing,” said Potter. “I met her before seeing Abraxas and Domitia. . . I thought I’d been brought to the wrong room. . . .”

“You must’ve passed the test then,” Lestrange remarked in a tone that made Euphemia feel like she was an outsider to some prearranged scheme. She wondered why Dawson had even asked her to join them — if that had been planned too or if it was just a whim. Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to actually take up the offer.

Turning to Potter, she gave him a smile, suddenly feeling like they were on the same team as the other wizards laughed. “So. . . um, are you selling this?” she gestured at her sleek curls. “What did you say you call it?”

“Sleekeazy’s,” Potter sounded appreciative. “Do you like it?”

“I think it’s brilliant,” she said and he immediately turned bright red for what had to be the umpteenth time. “I’d love to buy some.”

“Excellent,” he breathed, smiling brightly. “You’ll be my first customer, then.”


	37. June 1946: The Reneial Excreo Curse

Natalie sat on the floor of the hidden library within the Malfoy Manor, a stack of tickets to the Quidditch World Cup beside her and what felt like hundreds of tiny pieces of parchment spread out in front of her. The Department of Magical Sports and Games had given her a number of World Cup tickets to give to people. Deciding who ought to get one had turned into a daunting, all-day task, so she had called in back-up. But she hadn’t expected more or less  _ all _ of her backup to actually show up.

Dolohov sat on the other side of the lineup before her, moving tickets around, burning pieces of parchment, and tucking tickets into envelopes upon her request. The rest of her “help” wasn't too helpful. Nott and Rosier took one look at the mess and decided to begin a game of Wizard’s Chess instead. Now they were on their third game, but felt the need to comment upon her every decision. Lestrange and Dawson were across the room, flipping through books and rating the bloodthirstiness of curses they stumbled upon. And she could tell Dolohov wanted to join them. 

“Slughorn’s an obvious one,” she muttered, “Merrythought too, I miss her. . . I have to send one to Dumbledore because I told him I would one time. . . . Think Dippet would come?”

“Dippet’s ready to drop dead,” said Nott, his queen dragging Rosier’s knight off the board. “Evan, are you even trying?”

“No,” said Rosier, “I stopped trying two games ago.”

“That. . . that was the very first game we played!”

“Yeah, and?”

Ignoring their banter, she waved a hand at Dolohov. “Put Dippet down as tentative.”

“Yes, princess,” he said sarcastically and flicked his wand, moving a piece of parchment to the “maybe” pile. 

“Don’t forget  _ our  _ tickets!” called Lestrange. 

“You already have tickets!” she snapped.

“Not true, I told my dad to  _ not _ get tickets for those two,” Dawson pointed over at Nott and Rosier, a leer on his face.

“Seamus already told us he got us tickets to a private box,” Rosier rolled his eyes and Nott’s queen took out his other knight.

“Yeah, besides, my grandfather could just get me tickets if I owled him enough times,” said Nott.

“Ian Rowle, that old coot,” Dolohov laughed under his breath. “Yeah, to get you to shut up.”

“None of you are helping,” Natalie pointed out. “I brought you here to help.”

“I’m helping!” protested Dolohov.

“And being bloody sarcastic about it too,” she shot at him. Dolohov gave her a wink, making her shake her head.

“Oi, has anyone heard of the Reneial Excreo Curse?” asked Lestrange, staring at something in a book with a fascinated expression on his face.

Natalie looked at the tattered leather spine of the book he was holding. “Is that  _ Notorious Curses of the Dark Ages _ ?”

“Yeah,” he grinned at her, “it’s wicked.”

She smirked. “You’ll like chapter seventeen.”

“It’s not as wicked as  _ Lost Spells of the Aleutian Islands, _ ” bragged Dawson. “There’s a curse in here that will slowly turn your blood to ice until you die an awful, tragically painful death.”

“I’ve heard of the Reneial Excreo Curse,” said Dolohov, looking over at the two with interest. “It does something to the kidneys, right?”

“Yeah, it blocks kidney functioning so they can’t process anything at all so you’re poisoned from being unable to excrete your own toxins,” Lestrange eagerly explained.

“So. . . you can’t piss,” Rosier summarized with a snicker.

Lestrange stared at him blankly for a moment and then scowled as Dawson doubled over with laughter. “Well, yeah, I guess so, but it sounds better in the book.”

“Does it say anything about the Coralis Interra Curse in there?” Dolohov jumped up and ambled over towards Lestrange and Dawson.

“Unbelievable,” Natalie muttered under her breath, glaring at Dolohov’s back as he abandoned the task of organizing tickets. So much for helping her out.

Lestrange and Dawson looked thrilled at having him join their merry little search for gruesome curses, so Natalie returned to her task alone. At this rate, it would probably be accomplished much sooner if she just did it herself anyway. Her eyes landed on an envelope addressed to “Dumblesdoor” and realized Dolohov had deliberately spelled almost all of the names wrong on the envelopes. The bloody bastard. She sighed and went about correcting all the names.

“Okay, Rabastan gave the Averys tickets,” she said to herself, ignoring the conversation happening on the other side of the room about medieval curses. “I’ve got ones for Morrison and Shaw. . . Neil should be all set between his father and uncle. . . .”

“What about Cato Greengrass?” asked Rosier. He barely reacted when Nott beat him at Wizard’s Chess for the third time.

“You’re right,” she nodded to herself and scrawled their old Slytherin teammate’s name on a piece of parchment. “Glad to see someone’s helping me out here.”

“His older sister is really into Quidditch,” said Rosier, “and their parents would want to go, too, obviously.”

“Right, right,” she hummed, adding the names down. “Oh, I should probably send Burke one. . . maybe Borgin too, if I’m feeling nice. . . and oh, Reynard Shafiq. . . .”

Running through names in her head, she looked around the room. Rosier had agreed to play Nott in a fourth game of Wizard’s Chess, though was sending longing looks over at the group of Lestrange, Dawson, and Dolohov, who were all laughing uproariously at something they found in a book.

Fortunately, most of those she knew had another route to get tickets that guaranteed quality seating at the Cup Final (usually through Ministry connections). Everyone in the room with her already had theirs, as did Abraxas, Melania, and Domitia. And Tiberius had pulled some strings to get top box tickets for Abraxas’s in-laws as well. 

“Oh, shit,” she said as realization struck for who she was missing. “The Blacks.”

“My sister wants to go,” said Rosier, watching one of his pawns get dragged off the board. Nott glared at him, annoyed by his lack of reaction to getting his ass kicked. 

“Right,” she said, recalling what her grandmother had reminded her of before she started divvying up the tickets. The pureblood world had a lot of expectations and etiquette over things like this, and her not following these expectations would be seen as offensive and reflect poorly upon the Malfoy family. Sending Druella a ticket would mean giving her husband, Cygnus, a ticket too, which would mean giving all his siblings — Alphard, Walburga, Cassiopeia, and Callidora tickets, and then mean their parents ought to get tickets, and then that would mean their cousins ought to get tickets too. . . . 

“Bloody hell,” she sighed, glaring around at the tickets. She shifted through them, half a mind to simply send everyone she could think of a ticket and demand the Department give her more if she ran out.

“Where’s mine?” asked a smug voice. She looked up to find Tom Riddle staring down at her with a smirk on his face.

She grinned. “Look who finally showed up.”

“I was on business for Burke,” he said, glancing around the room. “I’m not sure what these idiots do all day.”

“Neither am I,” she grumbled.

“So where’s mine?” he asked, “or did you think I didn’t plan on coming to the Quidditch World Cup?”

She pointed at the singular ticket off to the side. It rose up in the air so he could slip it into his pocket. 

“Well, I never know, with your bad feelings and all,” she remarked.

“Yes, you do find those exceptionally bothersome, don’t you,” he dropped to the floor beside her and looked at the vast array of parchment and tickets. Then he looked back at her. “Why are you making this such a problem?”

She groaned, “because if I miss someone it’s a huge insult and makes the Malfoy family look like a load of tossers.”

He studied the names scrawled onto pieces of parchment. “No, you’re just making it more difficult than it needs to be because you’re bored. Just send one to everyone.”

“I was thinking that but I’ve only been given a limited amount.”

“Ask for more. What are they going to do? Tell you no?”

“I was  _ also _ thinking that. . . .”

“Just do that then,” he said with a snort. “Problem solved.”

She smacked him on the shoulder which made him grab her wrist and pull her towards him to wrap an arm around her waist. She sent him a playful glare but the muttering of what sounded like an incantation drew her attention towards the group of boys across the room. She watched Lestrange twirl his wand and a jet of dark yellow light shot towards Rosier, knocking him off the couch with a yelp.

“What. . . what did you just do to me?” he wheezed, curling up on the floor and clutching at his stomach.

Lestrange sent a devilish grin around the room. “Reneial Excreo Curse. Wanted to test it out.”

“So you picked Evan to test it out on?” Nott leaned over to look at Rosier. “He had just started actually trying in Wizard’s Chess, you git.”

“I’d prefer it if he didn’t die,” Natalie pointed out.

“He’ll be fine,” Lestrange assured her as Dolohov stalked towards Rosier, studying him like he was an interesting newspaper article and not the victim of a Dark curse.

“What’s it feel like, Evan?” asked Dolohov. Nott spun the Wizard’s Chess board around and moved Rosier’s pieces for him.

“Like. . . death,” Rosier gasped out, wiggling towards where he had been sitting on the couch across from Nott. Natalie followed his gaze and her eyes fell on his wand. She raised her own to prevent him from snatching it up and doing something stupid. But Lord Voldemort pushed her hand down, taking her wand and tucking it into his pocket. 

“Let them,” he said, watching the scene with curiosity. He raised his own wand and gave it a slight flick, so that Rosier’s wand rolled onto the floor in front of him. He immediately seized it with another groan of pain.

“I didn’t know it would have an immediate effect like this,” said Dolohov, now walking around Rosier. “I suppose once all the toxins start building up it’ll get worse.”

“Fuck — you,” hissed Rosier, squeezing his eyes shut and grasping at his abdomen. He jabbed his wand at Dolohov, sending red light shooting up at him. Dolohov jumped out of the way and the spell hit the ceiling, leaving a black scorch mark.

“Alright, alright,” Dolohov said hastily, pulling out his wand and muttering the countercurse. “There. You should be fine.”

“Able to piss, you mean,” said Lestrange, heading over to see Rosier for himself, Dawson beside him, laughing at the whole situation.

Rosier heaved on the floor for a few moments before slowly picking himself up, a furious look in his eyes as his gaze fell upon Lestrange. Immediately, Natalie and Tom scooted backwards until they hit the bricks of the empty fireplace behind them. 

Lestrange froze for a second and muttered, “oh shit-” before Rosier flung his wand towards him and snarled, “ _ crucio _ !”

Dawson ducked out of the way as the curse hit Lestrange and he fell to the floor, screaming bloody murder. 

“That’s how badly it hurt you bloody wanker!” yelled Rosier, finally removing the curse from Lestrange. 

Wheezing, Lestrange staggered to his feet, eyes dark as he clutched his wand. He flung a curse towards Rosier but missed and hit the chessboard Nott was still playing on. The board went up in flames, sending Nott scrambling away.

“That’s the second chessboard that got lit on fire,” sighed Nott. 

“Oh, shit,” Natalie whacked a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “The tickets!” All the Quidditch tickets and parchment with names lay between Rosier and Lestrange, who were on the brink of bursting into a full blown duel.

Voldemort flicked his wand and all the tickets and parchment gathered themselves into a pile and flew into her open hand, just as Lestrange flung another curse back at Rosier that opened a cut across his cheek. She tucked the pile into her robes and patted it several times to make sure it was secure.

Evidently still infuriated, Rosier shot the Cruciatus Curse at Lestrange again, who ducked out of the way just in time. Dolohov, Dawson, and Nott hung around, hesitant to jump between the two. Natalie leaned her head on Tom’s shoulder and he returned his arm to her waist as they watched Lestrange and Rosier bark curses at each other across the room. 

“How long are we gonna let them go at it?” she asked after a few minutes. Both Lestrange and Rosier had accumulated quite a few cuts and bruises from the duel; Rosier’s front teeth were completely missing and Lestrange no longer had eyebrows.

“They’re getting tired,” he replied as Rosier jumped over the couch to avoid a Bat-Bogey hex from Lestrange. The hex hit the cushions and they exploded, sending stuffing everywhere.

Natalie let out a scoff that turned into a groan when his hand traveled up from her waist to dig into the sore muscles near her shoulder. “Adolphus. . . can do better than the  _ Bat-Bogey hex _ .”

She fell into Tom as he started kneading at the weak spot below her neck, immediately making her grow limp. He laughed softly. “If you’re bored, feel free to stop them.”

“I. . . you. . . I — you have. . . my wand,” she mumbled, feeling completely helpless as his hand worked at her neck.

“Or you can try doing something without your wand,” he suggested.

“I. . . can’t think,” she purred into his chest and closed her eyes, feeling her whole body relax.

He pulled her back and stopped kneading at her neck, instead draping an arm over her shoulders so she could see the duel still happening.

“Try something,” he said. “Stop the duel.”

“Without killing anyone,” she said to herself.

“Yes,” he agreed, “ideally.”

“Hm,” slowly raising a hand towards where Lestrange stood, she imagined the tiniest spark flowing out of her fingers and zapping him — but only just. She closed her eyes and winced, expecting catastrophe. 

There was a yelp and a thump and her eyes flew open to spot Lestrange sprawled on the floor. Before she could comprehend it, Tom was pushing her hand towards Rosier. 

“Do it again,” he urged, so she repeated the exact same motion, thinking the exact same thoughts.

A shout of surprise, another thump and Rosier dropped to the floor, groaning.

“Are they okay?” she asked, looking between the two. Their duel abandoned, Dawson and Nott moved to help them up while Dolohov stared at her. 

“Yes,” breathed Tom, grabbing her cheek and turning her to face him. “They’re fine — brilliant, even.”

He looked so excited, she couldn’t help but burst into a smile before he leaned in to kiss her.


	38. June 1946: It's All Politics

Sometimes Winky Crockett hated his job. Being the agent for a certain witch on the English national team had its perks, sure, but he swore none of the other agents had to put up with the shit he did. None of the other agents had their players  _ die _ in a match, only for them to come around perfectly normal and, if possible, even more infuriating than usual. It wasn’t all her fault, of course. If the Minister wasn’t still insisting on keeping her out of public, he was sure it would have been Natalie herself standing beside Jack Lament, trying to convince the Director of Quidditch Operations to give her more World Cup tickets. And top notch tickets at that. The tickets Natalie had specifically requested were going for hundreds of Galleons at the moment.

“The players’ whims aren’t really a big concern of mine, Winky,” Jack said. He was slowly tossing a few Sickles into the Fountain of Magical Brethren in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. It was lunchtime, and workers were streaming all around them, talking and laughing during the one hour that was a bit more relaxed within the Ministry. The only Ministry worker who didn’t look relaxed was Jack Lament himself, who had been steadily accumulating more gray hair over the course of the national team’s run to the World Cup.

“Seamus Dawson is insisting England supply at least fifty percent of the Aurors for security at the Cup, or else it’ll ruin the Ministry’s relationship with Switzerland,” continued Jack. He flicked a Sickle into the fountain with a little too much force. The golden statues of the witch, wizard, and magical creatures seemed to glare down at them. “The second Seamus started weighing in on security, Ian Rowle decided nobody respected him anymore. Now he wants nothing to do with the World Cup, so he up and told Matt to do whatever he wants with his own Aurors, which pissed off half the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Matt committed the fifty percent, but apparently Finland is throwing a tantrum over having to match that — which, Seamus has told me at least twenty goddamn times, could ruin the Ministry’s relationship with Finland now.”

“Yeah,” said Crockett, fiddling with his hat in his hands and trying to sound like he gave a damn. “Sound’s bloody awful.”

Jack chucked another Sickle at the fountain. It bounced off the house-elf’s knee and landed in the water with a splash. “Nobody tells you how bloody political the job is before you take it.”

“Tell me about it,” said Crockett.

Jack shot him a look that implied he knew Winky did not care about any of this.

“What’s our star Seeker want now?”

Crockett tried not to wince. “More tickets.” 

“Christ,” muttered Jack. He dumped the rest of the Sickles into the fountain and turned around to survey the groups of witches and wizards moving through the Atrium. “Players always think the most important thing they do is who they send tickets to. I’d know, I’ve been there myself.”

“So’ve I,” Crockett said with a smile.

Jack clicked his tongue, squinting around the Atrium. “Have you seen Harry?”

Harry Bagman was one of Jack’s support staff who had allegedly proven rather useful with the advent of the World Cup, despite his overly gregarious nature. Crockett had never seen him actually get any work done, he always seemed to be in a deep conversation with someone about something completely inane.

“No,” said Crockett, looking around himself now. Bagman’s bright blond hair then appeared out of one of the lifts. He was talking animatedly with whom Crockett recognized as one of the Rookwood brothers, possibly Augustus, as he and Bagman were good friends.

Jack furiously waved him down, attracting the attention of anyone walking by and drawing a few laughs, along with one or two shouts of “England wants the Cup!”

Bagman approached them, a broad smile visible under his bushy cossack mustache that he had managed to grow after Antonin Dolohov (rather nastily) told him that blonds couldn’t pull off impressive facial hair. Rookwood followed Bagman, looking intrigued.

“Harry, how many tickets do we have left?” asked Jack, then he glanced at Crockett. “I’m assuming she wants private box tickets?”

Crockett grinned. “Yes, sir.”

Bagman tugged on his blond mustache. “Pile’s dwindling quick, boss. Webster asked for another thirty — turns out he knows that many Veelas.”

Rookwood laughed at this. Bagman shot him a look and wiggled his eyebrows as though to confirm that this was a true story.

“Merlin’s ballsack,” mumbled Jack, running a hand through his hair. “The national team was a lot different when I played for England. We had less. . . characters.”

Crockett had to restrain an eye-roll, knowing Jack was quite a “character” in his own day. “Of course.”

“I’m guessing Malfoy wants more?” asked Bagman with a look at Crockett. 

“She does.”

Bagman looked to Jack, a goofy grin on his face. “Are we gonna give em to her, boss?”

“I don’t fancy having even one Malfoy on my case about anything,” Jack sighed, staring at the strands of hair he accidentally tugged loose in his hand. He waved his hand towards the lifts, scattering the gray hairs. “So yes — get that squared away now before the Pottingers come in and ask for tickets for all their Irish in-laws.”

Bagman gave Jack a salute and beckoned Crockett to follow him. Rookwood tagged along, evidently with nothing better to do.

“Webster came in himself to get the extra tickets,” Bagman started telling him with a grin as they headed towards the lifts. “Did the rounds of the whole Ministry before. Zack Nott stumbled upon him in the Minister’s outer office. Apparently Webster was trying to convince Tiberius’s secretary — her name’s Selwyn, I think — that he’s the best shag this side of the Atlantic.”

Crockett recognized the names and laughed under his breath. “Did she agree?” 

“I heard Nott wasn’t too happy about Webster trying to seduce his girlfriend right outside the Minister of Magic’s office,” Rookwood snickered. He called a lift for them and they stepped back to wait. 

Bagman’s mustache quivered with laughter. “He wasn’t happy — Nott’s also friends with Malfoy, who has apparently told him that Ricky is a lying sack of shit — those words, exactly.”

Rookwood laughed. “Malfoy’s my favorite player on the team — talk about characters.”

“Speak for yourself,” grumbled Crockett with a shake of his head. A lift finally arrived and the doors opened. Crockett took one step inside the lift and a blinking red light burst into existence just above his left shoulder. Letting out a swear, he started jabbing at the 7 button for the Department of Magical Sports and Games, then at the door close button. The lift did not seem to want to respond.

“I take it that’s not a good sign,” said Rookwood. He leaned against the lift wall, looking at the red light with interest. “And the door close button doesn’t actually work. We just have it there to aggravate people when nothing happens after they push it.”

“Well, that’s just bloody brilliant, isn’t it? And no, it’s not a good sign,” snapped Crockett as Nobby Leach, who worked under Ian Rowle in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement stepped into the lift. The doors finally closed behind him and Leach pressed the button for Level Two. 

“What’s it mean?” Bagman asked as the lift started moving. He twirled his mustache around a finger and looked like his day had gotten ten times more exciting.

“It means someone is somewhere they shouldn’t be.”

Nobby Leach felt the need to involve himself in the conversation. He looked between the three others with intrigue. “Do you mean Natalie Malfoy? You’re her agent, right? I’ve heard the DMSG is trying to keep her on a tight leash.”

“It’s not. . . not really about her,” said Crockett, spinning his hat between his hands.

Leach stared at the red light and raised an eyebrow. “Looks like a Warning Charm.”

“It is,” admitted Crockett, shifting on his feet and slamming his hat onto his head. He did not feel like being interrogated by a member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the moment. Leach must have sensed the tension in the elevator. He remained silent, though still looked curious. The lift finally clattered to Level 7 and the doors opened so slowly it was painful. 

Crockett dashed out of the half-opened lift doors, Rookwood and Bagman on his heels as Leach called, “well, good luck then!”

Crockett hurtled through the main hallway of the Department of Magical Sports and Games towards the headquarters for the national team, almost knocking over Jeremy Algierson, the Pottingers’ cranky, elderly agent who (just like his players) was retiring as soon as the Quidditch World Cup ended.

“Watch it!” yelled Algierson as Crockett blew by, sending the stack of parchment Algierson carried everywhere. Rookwood and Bagman proceeded to step all over the parchment as they followed Crockett. “Blast you!”

“Sorry!” Crockett yelled; Algierson’s temper was the least of his problems as the red light continued to flash over his shoulder.

It seemed to take centuries before he skittered around the corner to his own office, nearly colliding with Matt Lament, the Head of the entire Department.

“Woah,” said Matt, looking between Winky and the red light. Then he glanced at Rookwood and Bagman behind him, his forehead wrinkling. “Everything alright?”

“Not sure,” gasped Crockett, “did you see anyone go into my office?”

Matt frowned. “I don’t think so. I’m coming from my own office. I’ve got a meeting with Seymour that I’m already late for.”

“Right, right,” said Crockett, Matt’s words flying in one ear and out the other. “You’d best be off then, and I’d best be on my way-” he hurriedly stepped around the Head of the Department and sprinted the last few steps to his office. The door was closed and locked, and showed no signs of having been tampered with. 

He drew his wand, unlocked the door and stepped into his office, pointing his wand around in case an intruder was inside. But the office was empty. The red light of the Warning Charm that made him sprint there finally faded from above his shoulder. 

Flinging his hat aside, Crockett lunged towards the locked drawer in his desk that held copies of all of Natalie’s contracts. It didn’t look like it had been touched, in spite of the activation of the Warning Charm he’d placed on it, to let him know if anyone attempted to break in.

“So. . . did someone get in here?” asked Bagman. He and Rookwood stood in the door of his office, eagerly glancing around as though expecting some monster to jump out of a corner. Bagman still curled his mustache around a finger and Rookwood looked like he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Don’t know,” said Crockett, opening the drawer and shuffling through the contracts. They all looked to be in order. Breathing a sigh of relief, he dropped the contracts back into the drawer and slumped into his desk chair. Perhaps the Warning Charm had gone off accidentally. Studying the room and finding nothing suspicious, he grew more confident in this explanation. After all, his office was always locked, and only he, the Laments, and Natalie herself had access.

“Spell could’ve gone rogue or something,” Crockett explained, nodding to himself. He glanced over at Bagman and Rookwood, who obviously wanted to know more. “You never know with Malfoy,” he said, “always gotta stay on your toes.”

Rookwood slapped the door frame with amusement and laughed. “I told you. What a character. I’ve got to meet her.”

* * *

“Alright, Seymour, what do you have for me?” Matt Lament grinned as he strolled into his assistant’s office to find Seymour Mulciber up to his elbows in paperwork.

“Plenty,” said Mulciber, sounding like he hadn’t slept in days. The half dozen empty cups of coffee on the table behind his desk supported this assessment.

Matt took one of the seats in front of the desk and spread his arms. “Hit me.”

“Well, I’ve singled out the location for the teams to stay,” Mulciber shuffled through the piles of paper on his desk and pulled out a stack as thick as a man’s thigh. He held it out to Matt, who picked up only the top piece of parchment and glanced it over. “A medieval castle from the 1200s. It used to be used for Muggle tours before their war, but it’s sat empty for five years now.”

“Brilliant!” exclaimed Matt as Mulciber dropped the rest of the stack back onto the desk, sending papers slipping to the floor. “How big is it?”

“Enormous,” said Mulciber, ignoring the mess of papers as though he was completely desensitized to it all. “Though are you sure it’s the best idea to keep  _ both _ teams in the same spot?”

Matt handed the single piece of parchment back to him. “Yes, trust me, the ICWQC is already having nightmares trying to figure out the logistics for the Final. If I present the option to keep both teams secure under one roof, they’ll eat it up.”

“Works out then,” said Mulciber, looking relieved.

“Exactly,” Matt nodded at all the stacks of parchment. “How much of what you dug up is important?”

“Most of it’s rubbish,” said Mulciber, pawing through the piles. “A lot of old Muggle tales about secret tunnels and sharks in the castle moat and ghost-sightings around the village. Hogwash, really — you know how Muggles are.”

“Well, I’m going to need you to sort through the hogwash rubbish and the important rubbish and get a full report of all details about this place on my desk. . . can you do it by lunch tomorrow?”

Mulciber looked at him blankly for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, I can do it. Should I run a report to Rowle and the DMLE too?”

“Don’t bother,” said Matt, “Rowle’s given me the pick of whatever Aurors we’ll need for this, so it’s entirely in Department hands. The old codger wants nothing to do with the Cup Final.”

“Can’t blame him,” said Mulciber wearily.

Matt laughed, checked the time and stood up. “Oh, come on, Seymour, the Quidditch World Cup is the most exciting thing to happen in the wizarding world!”

“Yeah,” Mulciber looked at all the parchment on his desk. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

* * *

Abraxas Malfoy had been calmly sorting through Triple I’s records when his grandmother marched into the study at the Malfoy Manor, her devoted but incredibly overweight owl, Zeus, preening on her shoulder. Domitia flung a letter at him and then dropped into one of the chairs in front of the desk. 

“I ask you!” she snapped, and Abraxas knew there was a tirade coming. “Not a single one of these dimwitted, miserable little cretins knows one thing about running a business! Do they know we source from all over the world? The world, good Lord, is an astonishingly large place! Do we need to remind them that it _costs_ _money_ to procure ingredients! We can’t just pull gillyweed and dragon’s blood out of thin air!”

“I know that, Grandmother,” said Abraxas, trying to soothe her so he could skim over the letter.

“Of course you do! No grandson of mine could ever be so astonishingly gormless!”

“I see this is from the top apothecaries in Russia,” he said slowly, eyeing the bold red header at the top of the parchment. “Or, the Soviet Union.”

“If you can call them that,” she shook her head in clear disdain, making Zeus nip at her thin white hair. “They’ve all been — what’s that word they adore —  _ collectivized _ . I used to have tea with Olga Zhukov every year — her poor brother is a Squib but apparently has made a name for himself among the Muggles — Olga owned the finest apothecary in Saint Petersburg — of course, now they’ve gone and renamed the entire city  _ Leningrad _ !”

“Olga Zhukov died ten years ago,” Abraxas reminded her.

“And a right shame that was! Olga never would have stood to allow her apothecary to fall into the hands of these — these wankers!”

Abraxas disguised his laughter with a cough, though Zeus the owl peered at him with enormous eyes before spinning his head around in a complete circle. His grandmother using slang curse words was always tremendously funny.

“So,” he returned to the substance of the letter. “They’re now offering twelve million Galleons, an increase from their previous offer of ten.”

“Which would just barely cover the cost of procuring what they’re asking for, and at those quantities, much less the transportation of it all,” she snapped and pulled out her wand. With a flick, a box of owl treats zoomed into her hand. Zeus immediately started hooting and flapping his wings as though he were in extreme agony.

Domitia began feeding the treats to the owl and he calmed. “Death-Caps, Erumpent Horns, Acromantula Venom — these aren’t exactly common, inexpensive ingredients they’re asking for.”

“Are we still in agreement with accepting nothing under twenty million?” asked Abraxas, leaning back in his chair to brood.

“Of course,” she said firmly. “That’s the minimum — we need to pay our own employees too, and need to make something of a profit from this.”

“What about the shortages here?” he asked, “Siberian Snowderglass is nearly non-existent in Britain. Our clients on the continent are also reporting diminished quantities.”

“Look at what they’re asking for, Abraxas,” she paused in feeding Zeus treats to point at the lengthy parchment. Zeus immediately began throwing a tantrum until she offered him another treat. “The shortages here are nothing compared to what they must be over there.”

“Which is why I think they’re getting desperate,” he said, eyeing the red logo on the parchment.

“Naturally,” she said coldly, “eventually they will have to agree to our terms. I can’t see it being much longer now.”

“But Gringotts still hasn’t granted them a loan, last we heard.”

“This is now coming from  _ all  _ the apothecaries in the Soviet Union, Abraxas, not just Russia,” Domitia said tersely. “I find it difficult to believe that together —  _ collectively — _ they cannot produce the minimum sum we are asking for.”

Abraxas shrugged. “Mismanagement?”

“Rubbish,” said Domitia. 

“They  _ are  _ desperate,” he said slowly, watching Zeus toss a treat into the air and then swallow it whole. “They’ve got the Eastern Bloc to worry about too — which I assume is why they’ve increased their offer now.”

“Slightly,” scoffed Domitia, patting the owl’s head. He crooned contentedly, nearly stuffed with treats. “Don’t worry, dear. They’ll come to their senses soon enough.”


	39. July 1946: The Interview

Ever since Rosier and Lestrange had (sort of) dueled in the library of the Malfoy Manor, it had become a past time for the group to meet there, dig up a curse or two, and (if they weren’t  _ too  _ dangerous), test them out on each other. After Dolohov accompanied Natalie back from practice each day, she would soak in a bath then stroll over to the hidden library in the Manor to read — where, if Dolohov had “nothing else to bloody do” he would inevitably end up, after bugging the house-elves for food. Eventually, some combination of Lestrange, Dawson, Rosier, Nott, and occasionally even Avery, would drop by. They’d pour over books, uncover old maps, play Wizard’s Chess — until someone found an interesting curse (or got pissed off) and began a duel. 

Tom Riddle joined them frequently as well. He and Natalie would eat through books and casually mention any intriguing spells they stumbled upon, proceed to taunt and goad Lestrange, Dolohov, or Rosier (the easiest to work up about something) — and then observe (and usually referee) the duels this produced. 

One hot day in July, a week before the English team would be heading to the World Cup, the whole group was planning on dropping in, and they had another task to accomplish as well. Avery was supposed to come by to take notes for an interview with Natalie about the upcoming World Cup, to be published in the Daily Prophet.

Natalie was lounging on the floor of the library in shorts and a loose t-shirt boasting her support for the English national team. The weather had been sultry and oppressive all day, Dent had even ended practice a whole  _ ten minutes  _ early that morning, which was saying a lot. After standing in a cold shower for a half hour, Natalie had joined Dolohov in the hidden library. The large windows of the library were wide open in an attempt to beckon in some sort of breeze, to no avail. Dark clouds were looming far away, indicating an approaching storm that couldn’t seem to come fast enough.

“They don’t teach anything useful at Hogwarts,” Dolohov complained. He sat opposite her on the floor, leaning against the couch. The marble floor was much more comfortable than the furniture. The two were flipping through books, trying to find some spell to cool the interior of the library before the others arrived.

“I can transfigure the couch into a dog but can’t make the temperature bearable,” she grumbled in agreement, tossing aside  _ Titans of Tempests  _ to pick up  _ Inclimate Climates in the Classical Centuries _ , whose author she was certain had not read his title aloud before publishing.

“What kind of dog?” Dolohov casually asked.

“Don’t know,” she said, running through the table of contents to find something about ungodly humidity. “Maybe a husky because they like cold weather.”

This made Dolohov groan and fling a book away in annoyance. “Nothing in  _ Weathering Wraiths _ .”

The library door opened, drawing their attention away from the task. Nott and Rosier stepped in, both sipping on what looked and smelled like iced pumpkin juice.

“Where’s mine?” Dolohov immediately demanded.

Rosier moved to allow a house-elf to teeter in, bearing a tray with more iced pumpkin juice.

“Melania had it sent up,” said Rosier with a grin. 

“Excellent,” said Natalie, beckoning the elf towards them. She snatched up a cold glass and downed half of it in seconds.

“What’re you doing?” asked Nott as they joined Natalie on the floor. 

“Trying to find a bloody spell to sink the temperature in here quicker than a dropped Quaffle,” she said and pointed at the books. “Start looking.”

“We’ve got to help?” whined Rosier. “But it’s so hot-”

“Yes, you’ve got to help,” she snapped, “just find a spell or something that might work.”

“Hold on,” Dolohov sat up in excitement and slid a book across the floor towards her. “Second paragraph from the bottom, mentions a spell that can freeze a lake — it might work. . . .”

“Let’s try it!” exclaimed Rosier, looking thrilled to get out of helping.

Natalie skimmed over the paragraph and frowned. “This is about freezing bodies of water. . . .”

“Try it, try it!” Rosier goaded her on, beckoning at the house-elf for a refill of iced pumpkin juice. She watched the liquid pour into the glass and smirked. Nott caught her looking and raised his eyebrows. She sent him a devious grin, making him immediately put down his own glass of pumpkin juice — Dolohov also pushed his glass away. 

Studying the incantation for a moment, she waved her wand and muttered, “ _ giacco frigidilors.” _

The glass Rosier was about to drink from shattered as the juice within it froze solid. He dropped it with a yelp. The same thing happened with the others — the juice froze and the glass expanded and shattered. Jubbal the elf squealed and nearly dropped the tray, but a quick charm from Nott immobilized everything affected, preventing glass from exploding out everywhere.

“Why would we try a spell about freezing bodies of water!” Rosier snapped in annoyance, vanishing the frozen pumpkin juice with a flick of his wand. 

“You  _ begged _ me to,” she pointed out.

“I did not  _ beg _ ,” he protested over Dolohov’s bout of laughter. The library door swung open again, and in stepped Lestrange and Dawson.

“Woah,” said Lestrange, looking at the shards of glass suspended in mid-air. “Did we miss the fun?”

“No,” said Nott, vanishing the glass with a wave of his wand. “It’s still hotter than Slughorn’s Potions class at the end of June.”

Dawson groaned in agreement as the two dropped to the floor with everyone else. “That’s for sure. . . why are we all reading about. . . weather?”

“We’re trying to find a spell to lower the temperature in here, you dimwit,” said Dolohov as Natalie started flipping through the book he had sent her way.

“Yes, so start helping,” she said, not looking up from the book. “You too, Evan.”

Rosier grumbled but they all grabbed books and started searching through them in silence. It was too hot to speak unless absolutely necessary. Jubbal cleaned up the rest of the frozen pumpkin juice mess and disappeared, promising to bring back more. 

By the time the elf returned, Natalie had stumbled upon something that seemed promising. 

“I think I’ve got it,” she announced as the elf started passing around more iced pumpkin juice.

“Oh, good,” said Lestrange. He downed a glass of pumpkin juice, then took out the ice cubes to fling them over at Dawson, who did the same thing back. “I’ve been considering using that curse Eric found that slowly turns your blood to ice.”

“So have I,” said Dolohov, dropping the book he held. “Hurry.”

She flicked her wand to close the windows, looked down at the spell and said, “ _ aerado gelido. _ ”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Natalie watched her breath condense as she exhaled and the temperature in the library dropped so fast, she got goosebumps. The boys moaned in relief and slumped onto the floor. Dawson pretended to be making snow angels, sending books spinning around him. One hit Lestrange rather hard — Lestrange proceeded to chuck the book at Dawson’s face. Frost started appearing on the windows and the glasses of pumpkin juice, which turned slushy.

“It’s a bit too cold now,” said Rosier, sitting up and shivering.

“Would you rather be sweating your balls off again?” Natalie snapped, leaning against the chair behind her and relishing in the cool air.

“I mean. . . I guess not,” he muttered. Natalie rolled her eyes and flicked her wand, making a black jumper with the English national team logo appear and fall onto Rosier’s head. He let out a yelp of surprise that turned to delight as he tugged it on.

“I want one!” demanded Lestrange and Dawson, no longer throwing books at each other.

“Me too,” said Dolohov.

“And me,” added Nott and Natalie laughed to herself.

Once they were all outfitted in identical jumpers boasting the national team logo, Dolohov climbed to his feet and started pointing his wand at the assortment of weather-related books, returning them to their spots around the library. Dawson and Lestrange stood to help him, which Natalie assumed would not last long once they became distracted by something. 

The door opened for the third time. Tom Riddle stepped in, a curious expression on his face that turned into amusement once he spotted the boys all wearing the same jumpers.

“I see the troops are assembled. . . but why is it so cold in here?” he asked, strolling over towards where she remained on the floor.

“Because it’s bloody hot out,” she said, and the others chorused their agreement.

“Then —  _ how _ is it so cold in here?” he asked, nudging her with his foot until she moved so he could take the seat in the chair behind her. She settled back to lean against his legs and pointed at the book Dawson was racing across the room against another book, controlled by Lestrange. 

“ _ Aerado gelido _ ,” she said, “a charm invented by a tosspot of a wizard who didn’t like people visiting him. He would make the temperature of his house so cold, they would leave.”

The books dropped to the floor as Lestrange and Dawson whipped around to face her.

“Are you trying to freeze us out so we leave?” demanded Lestrange, adopting a hurt expression.

“Yes,” she deadpanned and the room fell silent until Dolohov started snickering.

“Oh,” Lestrange realized, “you’re joking.”

Natalie rested her elbow on Tom’s knee and waved a hand. “Adolphus, if I wanted you to leave, it would be much more obvious. Besides, I need you lot here to entertain me with this interview.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Dawson. He had, as expected, grown distracted by the title of another book and was now skimming through it while Dolohov picked up the books he and Lestrange had dropped. “Where’s Lloyd?”

“Should be coming soon,” she said, looking towards the door. Almost instantly, it swung open and in stepped Lloyd Avery. Shock flashed over his face that then turned to relief as the cold air hit him. Greetings hailed around the room and he looked discombobulated for a moment before he spotted Natalie and headed towards her. He pulled a chair over to sit across from her and Tom Riddle, sank into it, and pulled something out of his bag, holding it out to her.

“Here,” he said, a golden Snitch nestled in his palm. “Jonathan Shaw wanted to give this back to you.”

Natalie lifted it up and looked it over. It was the Snitch from the Portugal match, the one she had kissed blood all over. The blood was still there, undisturbed and vaguely in the shape of her lips. A sheen covered the entire ball like a second skin. 

“It’s charmed so the blood won’t come off,” explained Avery with a shrug. “Bit of a memento for you.”

“Gross,” she said with a laugh but hovered it across the room until it landed on the mantlepiece of the fireplace. “There. So everyone can see it. Now, what’s this interview the Prophet wants?”

Avery grabbed some parchment, a clipboard, ink, and quill from his bag and set himself up, ink and quill floating in the air beside him. “Prophet is running an interview of all the national team players. Just some. . . good publicity. . . get everyone excited for the upcoming World Cup-”

“Yeah, she definitely needs some good publicity,” remarked Dolohov. Nott had challenged him to a game of Wizard’s Chess and the two had set up at a small table nearby. Rosier, Lestrange, and Dawson were snickering at something across the room. 

“Oi, Zack, when are you gonna beat Antonin? I wanted to duel him today,” called Lestrange.

Nott scoffed, “ _ I _ was going to duel whoever beat me at chess, and Antonin claims he can-”

“That’s mental!” exclaimed Rosier, “nobody can beat you at chess!”

“I have,” drawled Tom Riddle, making everyone fall silent, save for Natalie’s quiet laughter. Evidently, she was the only one who found this funny.

“He has,” Nott confirmed this as correct.

“Of course, we have only played twice,” said Tom. Natalie covered her face with a hand to hide her laughter and felt him begin to thread his fingers through her hair. But then she shot her head up and looked over at Nott.

“Can I play you?”

“No,” said half the room. She looked around in shock.

“Well, bloody hell! Why not?”

“You don’t have the patience to play chess,” Lestrange yawned, pointing at something in a book he’d found to Dawson, who snickered. “It’s too calm.”

She scowled. “I like calm things! I like. . . I like reading books! That’s a calm thing!”

“Yeah, but chess involves another person,” said Nott and he gestured at his board. “Plus, I don’t want you ruining my third chess set — and you’re supposed to do this bloody interview.”

“Oh, yeah,” she turned back to Avery, who had sat quietly and watched. ”Lloyd, what does the Prophet want to know?”

“That they don’t already know,” Dolohov said under his breath as he made the first move on the chessboard against Nott.

“Well,” Avery shuffled through some parchment. His inkpot floated around in the air, knocking against his head. “They want some background info — I’ve, er, already taken the liberty of writing all that out — stuff from Hogwarts like prefect, Head Girl, Quidditch captain-”

“Drama queen,” called Lestrange, making Dawson and Rosier erupt into laughter.

“You don’t think primadonna would fit better?” Dawson asked in a very poor attempt to whisper.

“I like primadonna,” said Natalie, resting her head against Tom’s knee and watching Avery grow flustered. She could tell he was trying his best to avoid making eye contact with Lord Voldemort. Tom continued playing with her hair, occasionally tracing a finger over the back of her neck.

Avery shot a glare at Lestrange, Dawson, and Rosier, who were all pointing and laughing at the inkpot rapping itself against Avery’s head. “I can’t write stuff like that in the Prophet!”

“Why not?” asked Dolohov, he sounded annoyed but Natalie suspected it was because Nott’s knight just took out his queen.

“Because I can’t!” Avery hissed at Dolohov. He turned back to Natalie, who was grinning at him. He looked disconcerted for a moment but shook his head, spilling some of the ink in his floating inkpot. He finally snatched it from the air and settled it precariously on the armrest of his chair. Natalie already knew this was a bad idea — and had to hide her grin when she spotted Lestrange subtly point his wand at the inkpot. 

The ink toppled over into Avery’s lap, splattering all over the parchment he held. Natalie was surprised when he merely tapped the parchment with his wand, vanishing the spilled ink as though he had charmed the parchment in advance to be impervious to ink spills. The disappointment on Lestrange’s, Dawson’s, and Rosier’s faces at this was comical. She had to slap her hand over her mouth to avoid bursting into laughter.

“Right,” said Avery, completely unbothered, “next we’d like to include some quotes about your, er, thoughts about the upcoming World Cup — how excited you are, if you’re nervous or anything-”

“Those are feelings, not thoughts,” coughed Dawson.

Lestrange smacked him. “You can’t ask the princess about her feelings! She doesn’t have any!”

“Yeah, Eric,” Rosier was clutching at his stomach, trying to prevent his laughter. “C’mon, how could you be so rude?”

“Downright disrespectful,” added Dolohov. 

“So improper,” Nott sighed as he moved his queen. “Checkmate.”

Dolohov pulled out his wand and lit the board on fire with one flick of it.

“Antonin!” howled Nott, jumping to his feet in horror. “That’s the third chess board!”

“Sorry,” said Dolohov, not sounding sorry at all.

“Hand him over, Zack!” exclaimed Lestrange, strolling towards them. “He’s mine — I’ve been waiting for this duel-”

Nott turned and fired a spell at Lestrange. He ducked just in time, but the spell hit Dawson, who was thrown back against the bookshelves and fell to the floor with a groan, dozens of books raining down on him.

“Oi!” Lestrange looked murderous at this turn of events. “That’s my best mate!”

“Don’t forget best man,” said Rosier. He leisurely started hovering the books off Dawson one at a time, who stuck his hand out of the pile to wave as if agreeing with Rosier’s statement.

“And best man!” yelled Lestrange.

Nott flung a hand at the burning chessboard. “And that was the third chessboard that’s been lit on fire!”

Natalie patted Tom’s knee at the exact moment he tugged her hair rather hard. It was time to get out of the line of fire. She turned and looked at him to find him already smirking at the events unfolding around them.

“Follow us, Lloyd,” said Tom as they both stood and crossed the room, the armchair hovering after them. Avery and all his parchment dutifully followed. They resettled near the fireplace, which was considered the “out of bounds” spectator area whenever a duel sprung up between the group.

Or it had been. A spell shot right above their heads, coming so close Natalie felt it ruffle her hair. It cracked several of the bricks of the empty fireplace with a loud bang. Ducking, Natalie whipped around to find who had shot the spell. Nott and Lestrange were locked in a furious duel, Nott screaming about his chessboard. Rosier was taking his sweet time helping Dawson out from the mountain of books, but Dolohov still sat near the burning chessboard, looking upset that the duel had ended up being between Nott and Lestrange. He gave her a cheeky smile, twirled his wand around his fingers, and winked.

“Why — you little bastard,” she muttered under her breath and drew her own wand. Tom grabbed her wrist before she could storm across the room.

“Did you plan on actually  _ dueling _ him-”

“Yes,” she spat, trying to shake him off her. To her surprise, he released her and stepped away. Putting him from her thoughts, she stormed across the room towards Antonin Dolohov. It briefly came to her mind that she was heading into a duel wearing shorts and a t-shirt, which was not her preferred dueling outfit, but she supposed it didn’t matter. Dolohov had thrown his first spell behind her back, so she wasted no time on the niceties. 

She sent several curses at him in quick succession. He managed to jump to his feet in time to parry them all, though one hit the burning chessboard and sent it tumbling to the floor. Someone shot a spell at it to put the fire out, but she didn’t see who.

“I’ll go easy,” Dolohov called, “nothing too Dark. No Unforgivables.”

“That doesn’t sound like your definition of fun,” she snapped, twirling away from one of his spells. 

“I’m not talking to you,” he said with an eye-roll. “Primadonna was right-”

She hit him with a nonverbal Aguamenti Charm that drenched him instantly.

“This again-”

His wand flew out of his hand with a quick  _ Expelliarmus. _ Natalie straightened, whispered one of the spells she had learned earlier and crossed her arms.

“That was pathetic, Antonin,” she said. 

“It was bloody awful,” said Lestrange. He and Nott had paused their duel to watch. They both looked disappointed to have done so.

“I said I’d go easy-” Dolohov began but he abruptly paused and looked down. “What the-”

The water from the Aguamenti Charm that had soaked him froze, the national team jumper became crusted with frost, dragging him downwards. Even his dark hair froze over, pulling his head down as his hair stuck together in chunks of ice. 

“Did you forget it was cold in here?” she shrugged, waving a hand through the air.

“It’s not this cold!” he protested, trying to wipe the ice off his hair. He shot a look up at her. “You used that spell!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said smoothly, turning around to walk back towards Tom Riddle. He sat quietly in the armchair near the empty fireplace, his face a mask. But something in his eyes sent a trickle of suspicion through her, and she paused, one foot mid-step in the air. 

Then a spell hit her from behind. She flew forwards, flinging her hands up to avoid smashing headfirst into the bricks of the fireplace and growling as she received quite a few scrapes from this. Thank Merlin for magic else Dent would kill her if she showed up to practice tomorrow morning with bandaged hands.

She flew to her feet to find Tom Riddle still in the armchair, staring at Dolohov. He briefly looked pleased about something before his face turned into a stoic mask. Lestrange and Dawson dashed to her side, asking if she was alright, but she pushed past them.

“Attack your opponent when they have their back to you, Antonin?” Tom said in a smooth voice. “That is low for you.”

Natalie stared at Lord Voldemort, then her eyes flew to Dolohov. She darted a few steps forward, pointed her wand at Dolohov and muttered, “ _ giacco frigidilors interno.” _

Dolohov dropped to the floor with a choked yelp, thrashing around and gasping for air, shards of ice flying off his flailing limbs. All eyes flew to her as everyone in the room paused. Voldemort turned to her in surprise.

“What was that?” he sounded bewildered, which made her raise her eyebrows at him. Nott crossed the room and dropped to Dolohov’s side to study him. Antonin’s muscles were spasming on their own as his eyes drooped as though he would soon lose consciousness. His breathing grew harsh and ragged — then they all heard it stop entirely.

Natalie pointed her wand at Dolohov again and said, “ _ finite incantatem.”  _ With a gasp, he shot up, water dribbled from his mouth before he slumped back down to the floor, panting for breath.

Tom Riddle stood and walked towards her, a curious look on his face that was soon replaced by amusement. “What was that?” he repeated in a soft voice.

She glared at him. “Did that not go to your plan?”

His eyes darkened and something like amusement flashed across his face. She went to snap another retort but Nott was looking over at her in shock. “That spell. . . you froze the water. . . inside his body.”

From beside her, Lestrange and Dawson sucked in a breath and both said, “wicked.”

“What?” exclaimed Rosier, joining Nott in staring down at Dolohov. He remained on the floor, breathing shallowly and occasionally spitting up water. “Um. . . he doesn’t look so good. . . .”

“You made up that spell on the spot,” said Voldemort. He almost sounded accusatory and she had half a mind to use the same spell on him.

“I’d call that a curse,” said Lestrange, peering over at Dolohov and wincing. “A Dark curse.”

Natalie scowled, mostly because the look on Voldemort’s face was now giving her mixed feelings. She wasn't sure if she wanted to duel him or snog him. “It was the spell from earlier that freezes bodies of water. I just added the last bit to work on him — an experiment, more like. I wasn’t sure if it’d work.” She turned to find Avery watching the whole scene with wide eyes.

“Do  _ not _ include anything about this in that article,” she snapped and he shook his head furiously.

“Wasn’t gonna,” he said.

“Good,” she said, walking back towards the chairs near the fire, Tom Riddle on her heels. Lestrange and Dawson moved to study Dolohov. She perched herself on the armrest of the chair and Tom returned to his seat. She settled an arm on his shoulder to balance as she looked over her scraped hands. He immediately rested a hand on her knee that jutted out towards him. She ignored him, concentrating on her palms and making tiny white bolts dart over her fingers. Her hands grew warm as the skin healed and grew smooth. Tom flicked his wand and vanished the streaks of blood.

“How much of that did you script?” she asked with a slight edge to her voice.

He ignored the question, tightening his hand over her knee. “You are aware that if you turned your back to someone who actually wished to do you harm, you would have been killed, correct?”

“Had I been facing someone who actually wished to do me harm, I wouldn’t have turned my back on him until he was no longer a threat.”

Avery coughed, drawing their attention to him. He held up the parchment.

“Hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of just. . . writing in some answers. . . .”

“Oh, shit, I forgot,” she held out a hand. He placed the parchment in it and she skimmed it over. “This is terribly boring, Lloyd. Am I not allowed to have any personality?”

He fidgeted in his seat. “Er, perhaps a little.”

“Lovely,” she shot a look across the room to watch Nott and Rosier help Dolohov up. He looked a bit shaky on his feet, and Lestrange and Dawson were inundating him with questions about how he felt.

“You might need to go to St. Mungo’s,” said Nott.

“Fuck that,” said Dolohov, wincing as he pressed a hand to his chest. 

“My mum can look at you,” offered Lestrange, “I can say we were dueling, she’ll believe it.”

“Sure, whatever. . . what bloody spell was that?”

“I made it up,” Natalie called to him, grabbing Avery’s quill and starting to liven up his answers. The wizarding world deserved more than just that she was “feeling excited” about the upcoming World Cup. 

The room fell silent and Tom Riddle started laughing quietly to himself so she scribbled some quick praises of Fortescue’s butterbeer frappes and the Leaky’s shepherd's pie and looked up. Dolohov was staring at her with a thunderstruck expression on his face, despite his breathing sounding very wet and haggard. She tilted her head and focused her hearing on his lungs for a moment.

“Adolphus, having your mother check him out might not be the worst idea you’ve had,” she said, keeping her voice light as she returned to jotting down some notes for Avery to use.

Tom grabbed her arm and pulled her down so she slid into his lap. She shot him an annoyed look as she needed some magical assistance to balance the parchment, quill, and ink. He ignored her expression and batted the inkpot to the floor when it rose into the air and started tapping against his head like it had done to Avery.

“Why?” he quietly asked, just as Lestrange loudly demanded, “why?”

“Yeah, uh, why?” Dolohov repeated before he started coughing. 

Natalie waved a hand. “His lungs sound very. . . liquidy.”

The four boys turned to look at Dolohov as though he were some exotic animal. Dolohov hacked and coughed until he spat up more liquid, tinted red this time.

“What. . . what did you do to me?” he wheezed, clutching at his chest.

“Sorry, Antonin,” she said with a wince, though Tom Riddle made an offended noise, draping his arm over her legs to rest his hand just above her knee. 

“Don’t apologize,” he whispered in her ear.

“No, it’s. . . .” Dolohov spat out more liquid. “Brilliant. . . .”

“Alright,” Lestrange rolled his eyes and pushed Dolohov towards the door. “You can tell her how much you’re obsessed with her later. We’ll take you to see my mum.”

“Learn some healing spells while you’re at it!” Natalie called after Dawson and Lestrange as they guided Dolohov out of the library. When they opened the door, an owl bearing a letter burst in, twittered in a circle near the ceiling before dashing over towards Nott and Rosier. 

“Oh, bloody hell,” groaned Rosier, taking the letter from the owl. He unfolded it and glanced it over, his face souring. He looked up at Nott. “Seamus wants us to come in, something about Switzerland-”

Natalie didn’t hear what Rosier said next because Tom began drumming his fingers against the bare skin of her knee before slowly running his hand up her thigh, making her thoughts slow. She flung the parchment and quill back towards Avery.

“Here. . . I — I think it’s good. . . .” she managed to squeak out.

“Brilliant,” said Avery, he looked the parchment over before packing it up along with his quills and ink. “I’ll have to run it by Rabastan, of course. . . .”

“Oi, Lloyd, do you want to come with us?” asked Nott, “we’re heading to the Ministry now.”

“Before they start shagging,” Rosier muttered under his breath. Natalie shot a glare at him and he started gazing out the windows with extreme interest. “Huh, it looks like rain soon. . . .”

“Yeah, let’s head over,” agreed Avery, crossing the room to follow them out. Once their snickers died away when the door shut behind them all, Natalie rolled out of Tom’s lap and hit the floor with a groan, sprawling out and covering her face with her hands.

“Why did you do that?” she snarled, “what if I killed him?”

“Why must you  _ always _ fling yourself onto the floor?” he demanded instead. “I mean, really — all you do is lie about the floor and sit on surfaces that aren’t meant to be sat on.”

“Oh, fuck!” she shot upwards to stare at him. “I should have included that in the interview! It would’ve been brilliant — it could be. . . my quirky habit or something.”

“What quirky habit? Your notorious lack of self-control?”

“No, my lying about the floor and sitting on places not meant to be sat on.”

“That’s a shame, because your notorious lack of self-control makes you far more interesting to be around.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought you disliked my ‘notorious lack of self-control’.”

“I do. But self-control and your notorious lack of self-control are not necessarily opposites. Some state of controlled notorious lack of self-control would be ideal for you, I believe.”

She jumped to her feet and her wand flew into her hand. She pointed it directly at him, the words  _ notorious lack of self-control _ spinning through her brain. “Admit you told Antonin to provoke me today.”

He smirked, rising to his feet and twirling his wand around his fingers. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Without hesitating, she flung a Stinging Hex at him but he quickly conjured a Shield Charm, and her hex shot off and hit the ceiling with a bang. Their close proximity and the strength of his charm knocked her down and flung her backwards. She landed on the floor in front of the couches, beginning to roll up to her feet but she found herself frozen. She glared up at him, infuriated at his unexpected, nonverbal Impedimenta Charm. He gave her a smug smirk as she crashed back to the floor, no longer able to capitalize on the motion of being thrown across the room, thanks to him.

“ _ Protego _ !” she snapped from the floor as he sent another hex towards her, it bounced off her Shield Charm and flew over his head. She jumped to her feet and dropped the Shield Charm as he bounded towards her.

“ _ Flipendo _ !” she hissed. He blocked the jinx with a lazy wave of his wand, so she shot the jinx at him again, nonverbally. But he must have predicted something like this and was already jabbing his wand to cast a silent Backfiring Jinx, sending the Knockback Jinx at her. 

Her own jinx flipped her backwards. She landed heavily on the couch behind her with a gasp, the wind knocked out of her. She went to pick herself back up but Tom snatched the wand from her hand and tossed it aside, then grabbed her shoulders and used his whole body weight to push her back down onto the couch.

He smirked. She sneered. He leaned down so their faces were inches apart.

“Not a single duel today was any good,” he said, sounding incredibly judgmental. “Though I suppose I can’t be too disappointed with yours — I was expecting some sort of thunderous energy, not a new curse.”

She wiggled her arms up to sling them around his neck, pulling him down while kicking at his knee, forcing him to fall on top of her. “I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.”

“You mean you weren’t trying.”

“I — okay, no. I wasn’t trying.”

“How. . . amusing. I wasn’t trying either, and yet I won our duel.”

She scoffed, “you didn’t  _ win _ .”

“You don’t have your wand and I am physically — and metaphorically, because I’ve won our duel — on top of you.”

Natalie wasted no time in ramming her elbow against the couch and reversing the force to roll them both onto the floor. Only for him to use the momentum to flip them over again, pinning his knee against her stomach and holding her arms down at her side.

She glared up at the devilish smirk on his face and went to snap a remark, but she heard the library door open and footsteps approach. She looked up to find Abraxas peering over the couch at them. He glanced all about the library, noting the fallen books, scorch marks, and broken bricks around the fireplace. 

“Do you always have a duel before shagging?” he asked it as though they were all having tea and discussing the weather.

“Well, not  _ always _ ,” she said, still pinned under Tom Riddle. He kept his dark gaze on her and she had to stop herself from squirming. They both knew Abraxas was right about this time.

“ _ Well _ , Grandmother wants your little gang to stop having duels in here.”

“What?” she gasped, “how’d she know-”

“How wouldn’t she know,” drawled Abraxas and he gestured around the room. “Make sure you clean this all up.”

“We will,” both Tom and Natalie said at the same time. Her eyes flew to him and they stared at each other as they listened to Abraxas’s footsteps head out. 

“Oh,” Abraxas called from the doorway. “Melania would like one of those jumpers that you gave to your little gang.”

Natalie rolled her eyes at his repeated usage of this phrase. “I assume you also want one?”

“Possibly,” said Abraxas. She could not see his face but his tone indicated that he very much wanted one. 

“O-okay,” she squeaked out because Tom had pushed her hair aside and started kissing her neck, nipping along her skin and slowly moving towards her lips.

She heard Abraxas laugh as though he knew exactly what had begun before he stepped out and left them alone.


	40. July 1946: Lauterbrunnen

Two weeks before the Quidditch World Cup, the English national team found itself in the Ministry of Magic for their official send off to the World Cup, escorted by Seymour Mulciber and Antonin Dolohov. Though Natalie was fairly certain Dolohov was only there because he did not want to miss out on all the action. 

It took them nearly an hour to make it from the Atrium of the Ministry to the floor where Tiberius’s office was because they had to stop for a photograph on every floor, and then give out autographs to whatever high-ranking Ministry official had a “son who loves Quidditch.” When the team passed through the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Evan Rosier and Zacharias Nott had pushed past Dolohov, pretended to be meeting Natalie for the first time, and asked her to autograph an assortment of ridiculous objects, ignoring the yells from Dolohov and Mulciber. Once they had flung Antonin Dolohov’s own wand at her, asking for her signature, Dolohov sent the two packing, furious that Nott had managed to nick his wand without Dolohov even noticing.

Ricky Webster and Leonard Cadwallader loved the attention, of course. The Pottingers took it all in stride, occasionally reminding everyone that the three of them were retiring from Quidditch after the World Cup — so they wanted to go out on a high note. Natalie and Dent were practically squirming with anticipation; Natalie had been waiting for, preparing for, dreaming about the World Cup for ages. She just wanted to be in Switzerland already.

“Only a one hour time difference,” Dent was muttering to her as Seymour Mulciber and Antonin Dolohov led the team out of the lift and down the corridor leading to the Minister's office. An assortment of Ministry workers popped out of office doors to stare at the team, some joining the long trail of workers and visitors who burst out of the other lifts, having followed the team throughout the entire Ministry. 

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” she said, maintaining a bright smile at all the faces gawking at them. 

“Don’t know why we had to tour the entire Ministry,” said Dent, also keeping up the facade of cheeriness for the fans. The crowd started clapping as Dolohov and Mulciber ushered the team into Tiberius’s outer office.

“Bloody hell,” Natalie mumbled; the clapping and cheering grew louder when they entered the outer office. Apparently a large group of people had staked out in the outer office, waiting for the team. As the Minister’s outer office was, by law, always open to visitors, these looked more like Hogwarts students and Quidditch fanatics who had camped there for hours, rather than the curious Ministry workers who tailed the team. 

Pamela Selwyn sat at her usual desk, an enormous Union Jack hanging on the wall behind her. She looked less than happy with the crowd in the outer office, but waved cheerily at the team as Dolohov and Mulciber now rushed them towards the inner office.

Jack Lament stood at the door to Tiberius’s inner office, looking as eager to get to Switzerland as Natalie was. His son, Neil, along with Cato Greengrass, were beside him. Her former Slytherin teammates hurried toward her, wrapping her into a hug.

Neil clasped her hand between both of his. “Please —  _ please  _ don’t lose!”

“And catch the bloody Snitch,” reminded Greengrass.

“Will do,” she said before Dent pulled her away from them and she was swept into the inner office. The door quickly slammed shut behind the team, cutting off the cheers and noise from the outer office. 

“Alright!” Tiberius Malfoy clapped his hands, gaining the attention of the entire team. He stood near the fireplace with Matt Lament, Head of the Department of Magical Sports and Games. Abraxas was sitting in his father’s desk chair, and immediately began pulling faces at Natalie like they were seven years old. 

“We’re almost an hour behind schedule, so let’s get this moving,” said Tiberius, ignoring the fact that a teenager had just tried to sneak in through the door, only to be forced back out of the office by Dolohov. “The Cup Final, as you all already know, is being held in a tiny Swiss village-”

“Lauterbrunnen,” said Abraxas. Natalie stuck her tongue out at him, she refused to let him have all the fun of acting like a child. 

“Yes, Lauterbrunnen,” the Minister of Magic waved a hand as Abraxas started mock-gagging in response to Natalie. “Seymour here was in charge of picking where you and the Finnish team will be staying-”

“Wait,” Dent piped up from beside Natalie, “we gotta stay  _ with  _ them?”

“It’s a bloody castle from the 1200s,” Seymour Mulciber rolled his eyes. “It’s enormous. I doubt you’ll even see each other.”

Ricky Webster was thrilled, flashing his pearly white teeth and running a hand through his blond hair. “We’re staying in a  _ castle _ ?” 

Tiberius did not look pleased at having been interrupted so many times. “Yes, I’ve been informed it’s all very charming. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has given the Department of Magical Sports and Games their pick of Aurors. They are responsible for your safety. Which shouldn’t be difficult, seeing as we’ve got strict security rules-”

“Is there a moat?” Ricky Webster looked like a little boy on Christmas. Natalie rolled her eyes, making Abraxas flip her off. She ran her thumb slowly over her throat in response, hearing Dolohov snicker.

“Yes,” Mulciber grinned. “And I heard there’s sharks in it.”

“That is not true,” Matt Lament assured them.

“Wicked,” Ricky whistled. “There’s a funny story about me and this super fit witch in a moat-”

Natalie groaned, “not now, Ricky.” 

“No, no, I wanna hear this story!” insisted Leonard Cadwallader. Abraxas mouthed “not now Ricky” and mimed crying. Dolohov let out a choke of laughter that he quickly disguised with a cough. Dent nudged Natalie in the gut, finally connecting her and Abraxas’s displays of immaturity. He shot her a glare — so she blew him a kiss. He rolled his eyes but still blushed red. Jack Lament was trying not to laugh, while his brother, Matt, kept shifting a large pot of Floo powder between his hands and sighed like this was exactly what he expected to happen by having the entire team in one room. Tiberius looked around at them all, flustered that he did not have control over what was going on in his own office. 

Dent tore his eyes away from Natalie. “Ricky, the Minister of Magic does not want to hear about your sexual exploits. And Caddy, just keep your goddamn mouth shut this entire trip, okay?”

“Right,” Jack Lament stepped forward and claimed everyone’s attention before protests could break out. Matt handed over the Floo powder and Jack began shoving little scoops of it into the team’s hands. “You’ll be Flooing into the village. The Aurors are waiting for you there. They’ll bring you to the castle. Your gear and belongings will be sent after you — no, Dent, we will not be putting the broomsticks through the Floo-”

“Thank Merlin,” Dent sighed and Natalie smirked at him. He glared back.

“Anyway,” Tiberius cleared his throat. “You should be the first to arrive. Everyone else, including myself, will be arriving closer to the match. We’ll all be staying in the village in the event any issues arise — and so will the rest of the wizarding world.”

“This has been a logistical nightmare for the entire Ministry,” Matt Lament reminded them, sending a beady look at Ricky Webster. “Especially for the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Please don’t make it any worse or Seamus Dawson will have my head.”

“And mine,” said Jack.

“And mine,” added Tiberius and he glanced over at Natalie. She gave him a nod, well aware she was under double the pressure — being the Minister’s niece  _ and  _ the team’s Seeker.

“And don’t forget to win,” said Mulciber with a smirk. 

“And make sure Natalie catches the Snitch,” said Dolohov.

Abraxas sniggered. “Yeah, or none of you will be allowed back into the country.”

“Boys, please,” Tiberius sighed, clearly frustrated with the inability of certain people in his office to act their age. His son was married and ran an internationally renowned business. But Abraxas and Natalie were sticking their tongues out at each other. They both quickly smiled at the Minister. 

Grunting impatiently, Dent pushed the two Beaters towards the fireplace. “Ricky, Caddy, go first.” 

They didn’t need any further persuasion. With a brief comment about what Swiss witches looked like, Ricky dropped the Floo powder, shouted “Lauterbrunnen!” and vanished in an eruption of green flames. Caddy was quick to follow, though he stuttered over the name of the village and sigh ran through the office. 

“He might need to be retrieved,” said Jack Lament. He gestured at Dent. “Best go next, see if he made it. . . .”

The Pottinger triplets — Tommy, Tucker, and Ted — had been silent the whole time, awed in the presence of the Minister of Magic. Now they collectively laughed to themselves.

Dent vanished through the fireplace and Natalie stepped up.

“I’m going next,” she insisted, wanting to go before the Pottingers.

Jack laughed, “go on.”

“Good luck, princess,” called Abraxas, finally serious about something. This was echoed by Dolohov and Mulciber. She saluted the three and grinned. Tiberius gave her a nod and a genuine smile, which she returned. 

She leapt into the fireplace, dropped the Floo powder and shouted “Lauterbrunnen!”

Floo powder always made her feel like she was suffocating. She kept her eyes shut the entire time as she spun and spun and spun — until she shot out onto a hard wooden floor. 

Coughing and covered in what felt like a thin powder, she heard someone step over and attempt to help her up. Her eyes blinked open to land on one of the Aurors. She ignored his outstretched hand and climbed to her feet, brushing off the fine layer of ashes that clung to her robes.

“Alright there?” he asked, not at all fazed by her ignoring his offer of assistance.

“Yeah, fine,” she said and glanced him over. He seemed rather young, and almost familiar, though he wasn’t one of the Aurors she’d met before. “I, uh, just hate Floo powder.”

The Auror smiled. “Me too.”

One by one, the Pottingers stepped out behind her (she quickly moved to put as much space between them and her). They had Flooed into a drawing room that was sparsely furnished in order to make room for whoever Flooed in. It was just as well — the room was nearly bursting with people. To her surprise, Caddy had successfully made it to Lauterbrunnen, though he looked a bit more dazed than usual.

“Everyone here?” asked Dent, looking around and nodding to himself as he eyed each of his teammates. Natalie recognized most of the Aurors, including Reginald Harlowe and Bertram Tarold. The latter sent a wink her way and she shook her head at him. Oliver Livingston, Jacob Coot, Rufus Scrimgeour, and Keefe Jameson were also present. There was one other wizard she didn’t recognize, he was tall, blond, and looked very Swiss. She assumed he was Swiss liaison or assisting Auror. 

“Listen up,” the tall blond wizard spoke in unaccented English as he surveyed the troop of Quidditch players. “Your Ministry handpicked and assigned seven Aurors to serve as your team security. The Finns have their own. There are more Aurors assigned from the ICQWC for general security in the town and at the stadium. My name is Hans, I am Head of the Swiss Aurors. I’ll be around as well, to help out when needed.” 

“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Reginald Harlowe spoke up, and Hans looked relieved.

“The Minister’s being pretty strict about security here,” continued Harlowe and everybody turned to look at Natalie. She immediately dropped her gaze to the floor. “Obviously. But if you don’t do anything excessively stupid there shouldn’t be any problems.”

Ricky Webster raised his hand.

“Ricky, no,” started Dent but Harlowe continued.

“If you want to know what constitutes being excessively stupid-” (Webster’s hand lowered), “-it’s anything that involves any of you going what we’re referring to as out of bounds. If you leave the castle to go down to the village — you’re out of bounds. If you sneak off the pitch to go to the village — you’re out of bounds. To make this exceedingly clear to you lot — this means no going into the village because you saw an attractive witch and she told you what house she’s staying at.

“Now, that being said, we’ll be escorting you lot to and from the pitch for practices and the big game. Be advised — and I’m only going to say this once — there will be thousands, if not millions of people here. It’s already been a catastrophe dealing with the Muggles, we haven’t even gotten to the part where every witch in the wizarding world wants to have your babies or every wizard wants Malfoy to bat her eyelashes at them.”

Again, everyone turned to stare at Natalie, the only witch in the room. She shrugged and gave them a wry smile.

“Wait, there are witches who want to have my babies?” began Cadwallader and Dent very obviously stomped on his foot. “Ow!”

“Let’s move out,” announced Harlowe, looking more than eager to get out of the cramped space. The room broke apart, Hans leading the way. 

Natalie found the Auror who had attempted to help her up grinning at her. 

“I’m Alastor Moody,” he introduced himself. He had beady dark eyes with a sharp intensity in them, and she realized they overlapped at Hogwarts. He must have just graduated. “I take it you do remember me, then.”

“Ha, yeah, I do. Ravenclaw house, right?” she asked. 

“Correct. Surprised you remembered. You didn’t seem to move outside of your usual group of Slytherins.”

“Yeah, not by my seventh year, no,” she said with a wince, recalling when her best friends had been in Ravenclaw. That seemed a lifetime ago.

“At least I know you’re not as much of a dunderhead as they are,” he jerked his head in the direction of Ricky Webster and Leonard Cadwallader. Bertram Tarold and Reginald Harlowe were keeping a close eye on them, though looked less than pleased about something.

Natalie had a suspicion that somewhere along the chain of command, someone had told the Aurors to keep an eye on one member of the team each, hence why there were seven of them. Ricky and Caddy were the most, well,  _ stupid _ , and so the veteran Aurors kept watch over them. When she saw Rufus Scrimgeour, who couldn’t be much older than Moody, pair off with Dent, she knew this was exactly what had happened. She was just glad that now the whole team had to abide by her “Manor-Pitch-Manor” lifestyle. Now it would be Castle-Pitch-Castle.

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on going out of bounds or anything,” she said as they slipped out of the house they’d Flooed into. It was sunset in Switzerland. The sinking sun painted the quaint little Alpian town hues of pink and gold and made the tall waterfall cascading down a nearby mountain glint with thousands of stars. It was gorgeously picturesque. Cozy houses with green shutters and identical red and brown tiled roofs lined the street. Boxes of flowers with miniature British and Finnish flags were placed between every house, though a few had Swiss flags sticking out of them as well. 

“You’ll probably be thinking differently by next week,” grunted Moody.

“Well, then, I  _ promise  _ I won’t go out of bounds,” she said teasingly as they followed the rest of the team up the cobblestone street. The hulking stone mass of an enormous medieval castle could be seen at the far end of the village. “Why didn’t we Floo right into the castle?”

“There’s dozens of enchantments around the castle,” explained Moody. He sounded pleased to talk about how secure the castle was. “Anti-Apparation Jinxes, Muggle-Repelling Charms — though those aren’t really necessary, the Muggles more or less abandoned the village during their war when the tourism dried up. You can’t apparate, Floo, or take a portkey into the castle. The only way in and out is over the moat and through the front entrance.”

“Seems a bit. . . excessive,” she said as the castle loomed closer. The main street they headed down melted right into a dark patch of woods. They stepped onto a dirt path and the Aurors lit their wands, throwing shadows over the twisted knots of ancient oak trees. Tarold picked the creepiest tune he could think of and began to whistle it while Ricky started regaling Caddy with an overly detailed story about how he had once shagged a witch on the stump of an old pine tree. Jacob Coot and Keefe Jameson moved to listen in.

“That’s because it was built to withstand sieges,” said Moody, scowling at Coot and Jameson. “Back when there weren’t regulations and laws about this sort of thing.”

“So it’s a Muggle castle?” Natalie glanced up. The soaring parapets could just be seen through the cover of the trees. Just ahead of them, Scrimgeour seemed to be telling Dent and the Pottingers a similar version of what Moody was telling her.

“Built by Muggles, redesigned by wizards,” said Moody. His lit wand made his facial expression look manic. “Muggles built it to last through months of sieges — that’s why it’s a goddamn maze, and why there’s only one way in and out.”

Natalie laughed. “Well, what if whoever was besieging it got in? What was the plan for the people stuck inside?”

“There wasn’t one,” Moody flashed her a toothy grin. “One way in and out means you go in, and if you can’t get out — you die.”

She snorted. “That’s awfully dramatic. Almost wish we’d be under siege.”

“Oh, you will be,” Moody said, laughing when she shot him a look. “By fans, that is. Quidditch fans don’t usually have the weapons to fully besiege a castle. But with the Minister insisting on tight security, having a siege-proof castle worked out.”

“Oh,” said Natalie, eyeing Moody as they stepped off the path and into a small grassy clearing. The outline of a wooden bridge could just be seen through the darkness. Tarold’s creepy whistling had ended most other conversations amongst the team and so they hurried towards the bridge and up to the castle, Caddy muttering about how he had the “heebie-jeebies.” Dent glanced over his shoulder and looked her up and down as though making sure she was still there. She rolled her eyes and Moody snorted at this interaction, staying in pace beside her. 

“Aren’t you a little. . . well,  _ young  _ to get an assignment like this?” Natalie asked the Auror.

Moody shrugged, but she could tell he had wondered the same question at some point. “Matt Lament personally picked the Aurors assigned to the team.” He dropped the big name as though hoping it would satisfy her. 

“Why didn’t Ian Rowle assign the Aurors?” she asked as Dent slowed to fall into step beside her. “Isn’t Rowle the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?”

Moody smiled and had a look about him as though she had just proven a theory of his correct. “He is the Head of the DMLE — but from what I heard, Rowle gave Matt pick of the lot. That’s all I really know — that and the ICWQC insisted the countries playing provide as much security for their teams as possible.”

Scrimgeour had overheard their conversation and jumped in. “Ian probably just let Matt deal with security because he’s an old codger and wants to retire as soon as he can — didn’t thrill too many people though.”

“Yeah,” Natalie hummed, distracted by the size of the castle before them. It soared up towards the dark sky, where hundreds of stars were beginning to wink down at them. She shared a look with Dent — the castle suddenly seemed much more interesting than what the Aurors were talking about. Hans opened the heavy doors with a spell. With a shiver of excitement, Natalie shot forward, dashed up a short flight of wide steps and set foot within the medieval stone fortress.


	41. July 1946: There Are No Sharks in the Moat

The team spent most of the night exploring the castle until the Aurors insisted they call it quits, as they couldn’t go to bed until the team went to bed. So the team had reluctantly retired to what the Aurors jokingly referred to as “the British Empire.” It mainly consisted of a well-lit stone corridor on one of the upper floors of the castle. There was a cavernous room with an enormous fireplace that served as their dining area. Each member of the team had a comfortably furnished bedroom with a large four-poster bed and windows that looked like they didn’t have glass in them until last week. (Natalie assumed they hadn’t.)

Natalie woke early the next morning with every intention of continuing the exploration — mainly because she could scarcely sleep from the howls of the wind blowing outside the castle. She stepped out of her room at the same time Ricky and Caddy burst out of their rooms, the latter whispering about how vampires liked to live in castles. The two tagged along as she strolled about, and she had to listen to Ricky rate every room they discovered on how nice he thought it would be to shag in. (She was very annoyed that his criteria actually made a lot of sense).

They had just stepped out of a room full of nothing but old, rotting flags bearing what looked like medieval insignias of knights (Ricky had rated it a seven out of ten for its “charming appeal” but a nine out of ten if you “thought history was a turn on”) and rounded a corner when they nearly ran right into someone. 

“Bloody hell!” Natalie exclaimed and Caddy let out a small scream as the bloke muttered something in what she immediately recognized as Finnish. She glanced him over — he had dark hair, a slightly crooked nose, and the unmistakable build of a Beater.

“Oh, I know you,” he said in lightly accented English and grinned. “The British have arrived.”

“We got here last night,” said Natalie. “What about you lot?”

“We also arrived last night,” he said and extended a hand. “I’m Arto Lassila, Finland’s captain. And you must be Natalie Malfoy, Ricky Webster, and Leonard Cadwallader.” 

“That’s right,” Ricky stepped forward to eagerly shake his hand until Caddy bounced over to scoop the Finn’s hand up. Arto held his hand out to Natalie, who looked him in the eye until he dropped it.

“Do you, ach, know. . . where the entrance hall is?” Lassila asked, looking between Ricky and Caddy with the smile of a man who did not want to admit that he was lost to a woman.

Ricky and Caddy looked at him blankly for a moment before turning to Natalie. Lassila stared between Ricky and Caddy, before glancing over at Natalie and realizing she was the only one who had any brain cells. She gave the Finn a slow smile and laughed.

“Yeah, c’mon,” she stepped past him and beckoned them to follow. “We’re heading that way anyway.”

“Great,” said Lassila, and he fell into step beside her, Ricky and Caddy trailing behind them. They walked in silence, turning corners, cutting through drafty rooms, darting down corridors so dark Natalie lit her wand so the others could see.

“Do you have a map?” Lassila asked as she led them down a rough-cut flight of stairs. The walls were wet with condensation and they could hear water dripping somewhere.

“No,” she said, feeling the confusion this caused him.

“Well, do you know. . . where we are going?” he asked, sounding like he was forcing himself to stay calm.

He could not see the grin on her face. She did not feel like explaining that she was using a combination of her heightened senses and unique energy to navigate around the castle. “Well, I don’t.”

Lassila muttered something in his native language and Natalie heard Ricky tell Caddy what he thought about the idea of shagging in the very staircase they were heading down. Lassila began to say something else, but Natalie hopped off the last step and pointed at the narrow passage in front of them. Light flickered at the far end and voices echoed off the stone walls.

“Oh,” Lassila gave her a look as though he did not know if he ought to be impressed or bewildered.

She grinned and wrapped her arm around his bicep, gesturing at the corridor. “Lead on, good sir.”

Lassila stared at her in shock, shivering from her touch, before a delighted look came over him. He laughed and led her up the passage. Behind them, Natalie could hear Ricky whispering to Caddy about how she was planning to sleep with the Finnish captain to get him to cough up team secrets.

They emerged in the entry hall of the castle, to the right of the grand staircase that led to the upper floors. Near the heavy wooden entrance doors were the seven English Aurors, the rest of the English team, and a pair of what she assumed were Finnish Aurors. Dent looked like he was about to start tearing out his hair. He was yelling something about missing teammates at Scrimgeour while the Finnish Aurors argued with Harlowe and Tarold.

“We’ve arrived!” Natalie called.

Dent took one look at her, arm-in-arm with the Finnish captain, and immediately paled. He hurried over and yanked her away from Lassila while apologies started occurring between the Finnish and British Aurors (evidently both were blaming the other for the missing team players).

“What’s he doing here?” snapped Dent, pushing Natalie behind him as though the Finn would attempt to steal her.

“We were exploring the castle and found him,” Natalie tried to wriggle out of his grasp but his grip on her arm grew vice-like. 

Dent narrowed his eyes at the Finn. “He’s the enemy.”

“The enemy” smiled and extended a hand to introduce himself. “I’m Arto Lassila. Pleasure to meet you.”

Natalie laughed as Dent stiffened, it was clear he thought the Finn spoke no English. “Er, hi, I’m Dent-”

“More like dick,” muttered Natalie, still squirming. “You’re hurting the arm that I like to catch the Snitch with-”

He immediately released her, making Lassila laugh. Dent turned purple, finding an excuse to ignore the Finn by inspecting Natalie’s arm for possible bruising. She yanked her arm away from him.

“Are you going to practice?” asked Lassila as the British and Finnish Aurors moved towards the group. 

“Yes,” said Dent, looking back at the Finn with suspicion. “What’s it to you?”

“We practiced last night. Tell your Aurors some kids came onto the field during our practice and charmed the Quaffle because they wanted us to give them autographs,” Lassila grinned, “wasn’t the worst security breach but-”

“That’s a goddamn embarrassing breach in security,” growled Harlowe. Alastor Moody vigorously nodded his head in agreement. 

“Well, anyway, we’ve got to be off,” interrupted Dent, beginning to look agitated. Natalie knew it was because the Finnish team had practiced last night and they hadn’t. 

The Finnish captain laughed and waved them off as the English Aurors shuffled them out of the castle. Moody popped up beside Natalie and began asking how much of the castle she had explored, but Ricky Webster became distracted by the fact that they had to cross the drawbridge over the moat.

“I think now’s a good time to tell my story about that bloody sexy witch and myself in a moat-”

“Ricky, no!” yelled Natalie, giving him a shove. She was sick of his comments that morning. 

“I’d like to hear it,” muttered Jacob Coot.

“Jacob, what have I told you about keeping your mouth shut?” snapped Harlowe as they bustled over the bridge. Harlowe had to sprint over with a groan as Caddy leaned too far over in his attempt to glance down into the moat.

“I wanted to see if there’s sharks!” protested Caddy as Harlowe dragged him back.

Coot and Jameson hid their laughter as Harlowe looked apoplectic. “We’re in the middle of Switzerland! There are no fucking sharks!”

But Natalie had doubled over with laughter and walked right into Ricky, who had turned to Coot to regale him with his story.

“Ricky!” exclaimed Dent when Natalie tripped over Ricky’s robes and tumbled downwards. Both he and Moody lunged to catch her — and instead collided with grunts of pain while Natalie broke her fall with her shoulder and rolled into a crouch, still laughing.

Dent pushed past Moody, pulling her to her feet and inspecting her for injuries while Harlowe shouted at everyone. Coot and Jameson broke into howls of laughter at a particularly bawdy part of Webster’s tale. Livingston and Tarold sprinted after Caddy, who had rushed back towards the edge of the bridge, shouting, “sharks!”

“I’m fine, calm down, Dent,” Natalie whined as he inspected each of her hands with care. His own hands were shaking and he was muttering to himself. 

“Already not practicing as much as the Finns, now we’re late to practice and Ricky almost injures our bloody Seeker-”

There was a loud bang, drawing their attention to a steaming Harlowe.

“Don’t you lot have to get to practice?” he yelled and they all froze. Slowly, Dent stepped back from Natalie while Ricky cut his story off (not without promising to tell Coot the rest. Caddy (looking decidedly disappointed that there were no sharks in the moat) allowed Tarold and Livingston to lead him back to the group, and the Pottingers stopped sniggering at everyone and everything.

“Right,” breathed Harlowe, relieved control had been established over the situation. “Let’s go then.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It didn’t take Natalie long to find her favorite spot in the entire castle. Early in the morning of their third day in Switzerland, after climbing a circular staircase for what felt like hours, she had kicked open a rusted old door and found herself on the parapet walls of one of the castle towers, high above the ground. She’d walked around, stepping over broken chunks of stone and enjoying the view. The whole village sprawled out below, nestled between the mountains like a child’s toys as the sun rose, bathing the valley in soft pinks and yellows.

Her solitude ended quickly. Dent stepped through the door and rolled his eyes upon seeing her up there.

“Avoiding everyone?” he asked, strolling towards her and wrapping his cloak around him against the cold wind.

“Everyone’s asleep,” she snorted, “it’s hardly seven.”

“Not true. I think Ricky’s shagging a suit of armor,” Dent said.

Natalie made a disgusted noise. Staying in the medieval castle was somehow making everyone behave more and more like themselves — if that was even possible. Ricky was acting like a sex-deprived nymphomaniac (which, to be fair, was exactly what he was). Caddy had never acted stupider, falling down a full flight of stairs just last night because he’d tripped over his own robes (he was somehow completely unharmed, claiming it was rather fun). Dent had glued himself to her side, trying to soothe his own anxiety by attempting to control everything he could before the match (he had nearly thrown a tantrum when she went to bed ten minutes earlier than usual last night, working himself into such a state that he was convinced she was coming down with a fever). The Pottingers had taken to popping up at random spots around the castle and reminding whoever they stumbled upon that the castle was definitely haunted (only Caddy believed them). Their laughter seemed to constantly be echoing around the corridors of the castle. Natalie herself was starting to feel tingly and on edge, which was apparently attracting everyone in the castle to her like Nifflers to gold. Arto Lassila  _ happened _ to come across her at least once a day. She was dying to look Tom Riddle in the eye and had no idea how she was going to last until the World Cup without seeing him. And it was only the  _ third day there. _

“Let’s go eat,” said Dent, turning towards the door. She reluctantly followed him back inside, unwilling to start an argument that early in the morning. 

They headed down the circular staircase to the door leading to the “British Empire” floor. Dent had his wand in hand. He was convinced the Finns were going to try to curse them behind their backs when they least expected it.

He opened the door and peeked down the corridor before nodding to himself. “Clear,” he said, beckoning her after him. 

They passed the teams’ rooms and approached the large room that served as a kitchen and dining area. Natalie assumed there were house-elves who made the team food — as the room was always stocked with food whenever they entered — though she had yet to see any in the castle.

Dent pushed on the wooden door and it swung open, revealing the cavernous room with a low stone ceiling and a roaring fireplace. He froze; Natalie peeked around him to spot the entire Finnish team sitting around the long wooden table at the center of the room, talking, laughing and eating.

“So much for never seeing the other team,” Natalie snorted, ducking under Dent’s arm and entering the room. He tried in vain to grab her by the sleeve but she stepped aside and strolled towards the Finns, who had all fallen silent when the door opened.

“Malfoy,” Lassila greeted her with a grin. “You’re awake early. I thought you practiced in the afternoon today?”

Dent hurried forward, standing beside her and crossing his arms. “Yeah, we do. I thought you lot had your own kitchen?”

“We do,” said Lassila. “We are on the floor below. One of your team said you have better tea. We wanted to try it.”

Dent looked scandalized that there was so much interaction between the two teams. 

“Tucker, no doubt,” he muttered under his breath while Natalie grinned and stepped over to take a seat between Lassila and who she believed was the Finnish Seeker.

“Well?” she asked, “do we have better tea?”

“Yes,” said the Finnish Seeker. 

“Tastes the same,” said Lassila and he began to introduce his teammates, gesturing at each player in turn. “Nickolas, Alex, and Ben — our Chasers. Petri, our Keeper. Henrik our Beater along with myself, and Mikko, our Seeker.” Each chorused a hello in either English or Finnish. Mikko felt the need to grab her hand and plant a kiss on the back of it.

“Mikko, Mikko Takkala,” he said with a flirty smile. 

She laughed and knew he was going to make himself an annoyance over the next few weeks. “I’m Natalie Malfoy, this is Eugene Dent. He likes to be called Eugene-”

“I do not,” snapped Dent, hovering behind her as though ready to yank her out of the room. “I’m Dent, the English captain. This is Malfoy, our Seeker.”

“You-jeen,” Mikko repeated the name in a strong Finnish accent. He looked at Dent and then laughed. “You-jeen.”

Natalie could feel Dent’s irritation. She grinned to herself and looked around for something to eat. One of the Finns (Petri, she thought), pushed a plate of muffins towards her. Seeing this, Mikko immediately started grabbing hold of every platter of food and placing them around her.

“Relax, Takkala,” Dent barked, “we aren’t here to eat with you. We thought the room was empty — seeing as this is our floor and all. We’ll come back later. C’mon, Malfoy.” He grabbed her by the sleeve and tugged rather hard. Natalie nearly choked on a bite of a blueberry muffin.

“Dent! You said let’s go eat!”

“Well, I didn’t plan on having intruders,” he hissed.

“Yeah, but-” Natalie cut off when the door flew open and Ricky, Caddy, and the Pottingers all burst into the room. Seeing the Finnish team, they froze, looking around until they spotted Natalie and Dent.

“Blimey,” Ricky gave Natalie an impressed look. “Already moved up to eating with the whole team — that’s bloody good progress, that is! You know shagging is the next step, then, right? That always follows food — you’ll have their team-”

“Shut up, Ricky!” Natalie yelled.

“What’re you lot doing here?” Dent sounded panicked.

“Isn’t this where we eat?” asked Caddy, looking around in confusion. “What are these blokes doing here? Who are they?”

Lassila leaned over to whisper in her ear. “He’s slow, yes?”

She smirked, “yeah.”

Takkala copied Lassila, leaning over and whispering into her ear. “I am not slow! I win many duels — never defeat, ever.”

Natalie patted Takkala on the arm, making him freeze. “Good for you, Mikko.”

Dent continued tugging on her robes. “Alright, we’ve got to be off-”

“Why don’t you join?” suggested Lassila, raising an eyebrow at Dent, who had started visibly sweating despite the perpetual chill that permeated every corner of the castle. “We don't have to act uncivilized off the Quidditch pitch.”

“Oh,” muttered Dent. The Pottingers, Ricky, and Caddy were already all taking seats at the table by the Finns. The ones who spoke some English started striking up conversations — which mostly seemed to be about the same thing: attractive women.

“Sit down, captain,” Natalie grabbed his robes this time and tugged him into the seat between her and Lassila. She’d kept her other hand on Takkala’s arm, and the Finnish Seeker was beginning to groan under his breath. She quickly removed it and he muttered in disappointed Finnish, scooting himself closer to her. 

“So, Arto, get lost in the castle again?” Natalie asked the Finnish captain, pouring herself a mug of coffee. Takkala moved to offer her cream and sugar, which she accepted, sending him a wink. He beamed and looked immensely pleased with himself.

“No,” Lassila said with a sheepish smile. “Our Aurors taught me a directional spell. It’s useful — the entrance is always south.”

Dent took the mug of coffee right out of Natalie’s hand and vanished it with a wave of his wand.

“I was gonna drink that,” she pointed out.

“I don’t need you drinking coffee, you’ll get too hyper,” he said gruffly.

“Can I drink tea then?”

“No more than two cups.”

“Noted,” she rolled her eyes and reached for a pot of tea instead. Lassila was staring at them in fascination.

“Are you. . . are you two. . . .”

“Married?” asked Takkala. He was now sitting so close to Natalie their legs were touching under the table, which made her move closer to Dent, who refused to move any closer to the Finnish captain. Natalie found herself squished between the two boys on either side of her. It was clear neither of them had a problem with the physical contact. Mikko looked giddy and Dent had started rhythmically nodding his head.

“No,” snapped Natalie, while thinking  _ not to him _ in her head. 

“Good,” said Takkala. “My uncle. . . tell wife not to drink coffee. She leave him.”

“Good for her,” Natalie muttered. 

“I was going to ask if you two are okay,” Lassila said with a laugh. “It’s just coffee.”

“You don’t know my Seeker,” Dent said defensively. He had grudgingly piled food onto his plate and was monitoring what Natalie placed on hers. 

“Dent’s mental,” said Natalie, polishing off a blueberry muffin and squirming in her seat, in the hopes the boys would get the point and give her more space. The message was apparently not received. Takkala interpreted her movement as an invitation to rest a hand on her knee under the table. She promptly stomped on his foot — he got that message.

“-said wait till you see them in your bed — and lads, let me tell you, she was bloody right.” Laughter erupted from the Finns sitting around Ricky. His punchline was quickly translated to Finnish, inciting more laughter. 

Lassila grinned. “He’d fit in with my team.”

“Ricky’s the team sex addict,” explained Dent. “Has a story for every place he’s shagged someone.”

“Yeah, like moats,” added Natalie. “And tree trunks.”

Ricky had heard her comment and let out a loud belch. “There are sharks in the moat here, Malfoy!”

“Did you shag one?” she asked innocently.

“No, I’m not a bloody lunatic — but if that’s what it’d take to give you the honor of shagging me, I might consider it.”

“Okay,” she dropped her fork and leaned forward. Dent tensed beside her, grabbing a fistful of her robes as though to prevent her from jumping across the table at Ricky. “Shag one of the sharks in the moat, Ricky. Then I’ll let you sleep with me.”

For a moment there was silence. Caddy had his mouth hanging open and most of the Finnish team stared at her in bewilderment. The Pottingers started snickering. One of them muttered, “this’ll be good.” 

Lassila whispered to Dent. “There are no sharks in the moat. . . .”

“She knows that,” grumbled Dent. 

Takkala picked up her hand and held it almost lovingly in his. “If I, as you say, shag — I do not know what this means — but if I do — I sleep with you?”

Ricky bent his fork in half without magic, flexing his biceps as much as he could. “Not you, Micky. She was talking to  _ me _ .”

“Webster-” Dent warned, but Ricky flew to his feet and was out the door in an instant. Everyone else looked at each other. And then they were all scrambling after Ricky.

“Malfoy, why did you do that?” Dent was yelling at her as they barrelled through the castle corridors, Ricky’s bright blond hair just ahead of them. “You know what he’s like!”

“I’m bored!” she shouted back.

“So are you actually gonna sleep with him?”

“No!”

Somehow, Ricky only had to turn around once before making it to the main staircase and running down into the entrance hall, where Matt Lament was speaking with the Swiss Auror named Hans.

“It’s a new design, you say?” Matt was admiring an enormous hat Hans was wearing. The Swiss Auror was grinning like a kid with candy. The hat was blue, white, and red, and flashed the faces of the English team. “Looks bloody amazing.”

“Yes,” said Hans, “they’ll be selling them down in the village when the crowds arrive. I’m testing this out, to see if the charm sticks — watch.” He tapped the hat with his wand and it stopped flashing and remained on Ricky Webster’s grinning face. The real Ricky Webster then ran past the two. They turned to watch him slip out the castle doors that Matt must have left open.

“What the-” exclaimed Matt as the rest of the English team and the entire Finnish team ran by. Hans let out a curse in another language. 

“Sharks!” Caddy shouted at them.

Once outside, Ricky was apparently stumped for how to go about his business of shagging a shark. He paced alongside the wooden fence, peering down into the dark moat and muttering to himself. 

Caddy climbed up onto the stone wall that overlooked the moat between the castle steps and the wooden drawbridge. “Oi, sharks!” he shouted down into the water below, getting dangerously close to the edge.

“Caddy, get down!” yelled Dent. His face was beginning to turn purple as his head kept whipping around, trying to keep an eye on every member of his team. One of the Pottingers reached up and pulled Cadwallader back to safety. 

“It’s alright!” Caddy told everyone as if they’d asked. “I’m a Sagittarius! I’m naturally lucky so bad things can’t happen to me.”

“What does that even mean?” Arto Lassila looked dumbfounded. Natalie had to sit down on the drawbridge as she shook with laughter. Takkala sat next to her while the rest of the Finnish team took seats on the castle stairs as though they were there to watch a show. 

“Can you lot shut up!?” yelled Ricky. He walked along the length of the bridge, inspecting it for any way down into the moat. “I’m awfully busy!”

Mikko Takkala began tugging at Natalie's hair but she swatted his hand away as Matt Lament stepped out of the castle doors, followed by the troop of English and Finnish Aurors. Matt tucked the hat that Hans had been wearing into his robes (he’d apparently convinced Hans to give it to him) and looked around in confusion.

“What in Merlin’s name is happening?” he asked.

“Webster is trying to fuck a shark so Malfoy will sleep with him,” Henrik, one of the Finnish Beaters, informed him.

Matt stared at Henrik as though he had just spoken a load of Finnish and expected him to understand what he said. “What?”

Reginald Harlowe looked like he wanted to quit on the spot. “There are no sharks in this fucking moat, how many blasted times do you idiots have to be told?”

“Is no one gonna say anything about how that’s bestiality?” asked Jacob Coot. 

“Shut your mouth, Coot,” snapped Harlowe.

“Ricky!” Dent stormed towards the Beater. “Stop!”

Ricky leaned over the flimsy wooden railing. “I’m busy, Dent! There’s a lot on the line here!”

“Malfoy’s not going to sleep with you!”

“You’re just jealous I have this opportunity.”

Natalie sighed. It wasn’t nearly as entertaining with the Aurors all present. Harlowe, Tarold, and Livingston were all hurrying towards Dent and Ricky. Mikko picked her hand up and pressed a kiss to it again. She pulled her hand from him and patted him on the head as she stood up.

“Well, that was fun while it lasted,” she said. He jumped to his feet beside her. 

“Fun?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” she said, picking her way around the Finnish team and the Aurors who crowded on the stairs, Mikko tailing her. She needed to get back inside before it came out that the whole thing had been her idea. 

She slipped through the castle doors, Takkala behind her. A quick spell caused the heavy doors to slam shut and the thick metal latch to fall into place, locking everyone outside just as half a dozen furious shouts of “Malfoy!” went up.

Laughing, Natalie looped her arm through Takkala’s and led him into the castle, with every intention of wheedling out his team’s secrets without needing to do more than pat him on the arm every so often. “So, Mikko, tell me, what’s your favorite thing about catching the Snitch?”


	42. July 1946: Out of Bounds

It was the last day in July. The team had been in Switzerland for a while now, falling into a routine of practice, having meals together, exploring the castle, and avoiding the Finnish team — which seemed to never happen. A few or all of the Finns always showed up for dinner or would tag along in their excursions around the castle. Natalie only liked it because it drove Dent mental.

By now, Lauterbrunnen was full of fans — tents and make-shift houses were beginning to pop up around the village, as more and more witches and wizards arrived for the biggest sporting event in the world. It was like the wizarding world had taken a collective vacation in the middle of the Alps.

Natalie had not foreseen how  _ boring _ the days before the World Cup would be. (She supposed Alastor Moody had been right). The teams were not allowed to enter the village and were escorted by the Aurors to and from the pitch for practices. The massive chunks of free time combined with the atmosphere of the castle and the anticipation for the upcoming World Cup had everyone on both teams acting out of their goddamn minds. It didn’t help that the energy coming from the village was intoxicating, but they were not allowed to join in. Between the two Quidditch teams and all the Aurors, she was the only female in the castle and with the teams more or less confined to the fortress, that fact was beginning to make itself known. Ricky’s lewd comments, Dent’s overbearing fussiness, and the stares of the Finnish team were eating away at her sanity. 

Darkness was falling fast and she stood — deliciously alone — on the parapets of the castle. She could hear the whoops and shouts of people in the village, like muffled chatter from a room just downstairs. An eagle was hovering in the air above the nearby castle tower. She watched it circle before swooping to land on top of the old stone battlements, not far from her. It leered at her with beady eyes before shuffling its feet and scanning the valley. She grinned to herself and did the same. 

Lauterbrunnen spread out below her like a sea of tiny lights, patchworked across the shadows of the mountains. On the far end of the village, near the army of tents that had been set up, fireworks would soon be set off by the opposing camps that had formed throughout the village. The English supporters would shoot off red, white, and blue fireworks that arranged themselves in the shape of the Union Jack. The Finnish supporters would then send up their own fireworks that would block out the English flag and display the Finnish flag. This would cause jeers and hollers that would echo around the mountains.

“Aha,” a voice sent the eagle flying away with an insulted squawk. Natalie turned to find the Finnish Seeker, Mikko Takkala, stepping out of the heavy wooden door. He grinned, eyes gleaming in the torchlight. “Found you.”

She looked back at the village and rolled her eyes, wrapping her heavy fur cloak around her. Takkala had been obsessed with her since she locked everyone else out of the castle and strolled around with him for an hour. She didn’t particularly care to learn if his obsession was deliberate, to find out any Quidditch tactics (as she was doing to him), or if he just wanted to sleep with her. By now it was probably both.

“Takkala,” she greeted him as he strolled over to stand beside her. A bit too close for her tolerance at the moment. She shifted to the left but he closed the gap.

“Call me Mikko, I say,” he said in his heavy accent. He reached over and grabbed her hand, shivered and planted a sloppy kiss on the back of her palm. She pulled her hand away and wiped it on her thick cloak, silently cursing the fact that the castle was making her energy — and everyone else — act up.

“I look for you,” he said, “your captain — his name?”

“Dent,” she said, well aware Mikko knew Dent’s name. A wild plan to leave the castle and go down into the village was beginning to take shape in her mind. She eyed the houses in the village and wondered which one Tom Riddle would be in at this hour.

“Dent,” Takkala repeated the name as though it sounded silly to him. “Ah, yes, You-Jeen. He say you go to bed, but I know better.”

“Congrats on finding me, then.” This peaceful spot was now ruined. She’d have to find another. The castle was big enough, there were plenty. She turned her mind to ways of escaping Takkala at the moment. Perhaps she could shake him off and also sneak out of the castle. . . .

Stepping away from him again, she spun around and marched towards the door leading into the castle. Takkala hurried to keep up.

“You are cold?” he asked as they ducked inside. She started down the circular staircase, passing flickering torches and rusted old doors.

“Yeah,” she lied automatically. Takkala was so close to her she was worried he’d trip on her cloak and make them both fall down the stairs. Dent would not be happy with that. She picked up the pace, barreling down the stone stairs as fast as she could, ignoring the comments he threw at her. They finally came to the door that led to the “British Empire” level.

Natalie paused just outside the door, turning to look back at Takkala. Very slowly, very deliberately, she looked him up and down. She hid a grin as she heard his breath catch in his throat.

“Do you want to come to my room?” she purred.

He rolled his tongue around the inside of his cheek. “Of course-” she cut him off and tugged him along after her, praying to Salazar Slytherin that her hastily concocted plan would work. The heavy door flew open before her palm and they entered the well-lit, wide stone hallway.

She led Takkala to her room, but froze upon realizing the door was open. She stepped in to find Dent staring at her empty bed with disappointment.

“What’re you doing here?” she snapped, cursing to herself. This was already not going to plan. She couldn’t lock Mikko in her room if Dent was there too.

Dent crossed his arms. “Where’ve you been? I had a feeling you were up to no good and came to check if you actually went to bed like you claimed to an hour ago.”

“Looks like I didn’t,” she retorted.

Dent’s gaze fell on her hand, still clutching Takkala’s. His eyes widened. “Are you — are you actually sleeping with the enemy Seeker?”

“No,” she said, dropping Takkala’s hand. But he snuck an arm around her waist and pulled her against him, saying “yes” at the same time.

Dent stared between them as she tried to push Takkala away from her. He kept grabbing at her cloak and batting her hands away.

“Who am I supposed to believe?” Dent barked, “my own Seeker who’s already lied to me, or the opposing team’s Seeker?”

“Me,” she seethed, finally extricating herself from Takkala’s grasp. She straightened her cloak and squared her shoulders, looking between the two boys. “Both of you get out of my room.”

They ignored this order.

“Are you shagging the Finnish team?” yelled Dent, “Jesus Christ, Malfoy, you had me thinking you were just bloody good at manipulating people, finding out all sorts of stuff about their playing style-”

“I am!” Natalie snapped. “I mean — good at manipulating, bloody hell, I’m not sleeping with them-”

Takkala, meanwhile, turned on Dent and growled, “you ruin my night!”

Ricky Webster popped through the door, looking around with interest. “I heard someone say shagging. Does Malfoy finally want to sleep with me?”

“Not you, me,” boasted Takkala. “She want me.”

Dent sounded furious. “Nobody is shagging anybody tonight!”

“Why?” asked Ricky, unperturbed by the captain’s anger. He wiggled his eyebrows at Dent. “Because  _ you  _ want to shag Malfoy?”

“What is shag?” Takkala sounded mystified (apparently he still hadn’t picked up on the meaning). Dent turned bright red. Natalie laughed, making the boys stare at her.

She crossed her arms. “Everyone get out.”

“No-” they all began but another figure appeared in the door. Reginald Harlowe, dressed in his night robes and looking like he had been rudely awakened, glared around the room.  
“What in Merlin’s name is going on tonight?” he snapped, “I’ve already had to turn away a load of shoddily dressed witches that the bloody Finns invited up — now you lot are in here fighting over whose turn it is to shag Malfoy? If I’d known staying in this ruddy castle was going to turn you all into mad March hares, I’d have told Matt to stuff it!”

“It’s my turn,” Ricky immediately said.

Takkala glared. “No, me!”

“Shut up!” Natalie yelled, stomping her foot on the floor. They fell silent, staring at her as though she’d slapped them all. Harlowe even pressed a hand to his chest and winced. “Harlowe, I am being harassed. Make them all leave or I will take security into my own hands.”

Harlowe snapped out of his trance, gave her a salute and pulled his wand from his pocket in an obvious threat. “I’m not above using Stinging Hexes on famous Quidditch players. . . .”

Reluctantly, the three boys slipped out the door one by one, all of them looking back at her. She ignored them, studying her nails as a few whitish sparks crackled over her fingers.

“So,” Harlowe said once they left. “Are you shagging the Finns to weasel out their team secrets? I overheard Dent saying something about how the Finns like to have their Beaters fly in formation to protect their Seeker.”

She snorted, “no. Takkala told me that without me needing to climb into his bed.”

“Might be a lie then,” he tucked his wand away, turning to leave. “Night, then.”

“Night,” she muttered and he closed the door behind him, leaving her in silence. 

Natalie paced the room, staring at the roaring fire and waiting until she was sure most everyone in the castle had finally gone to sleep. There was only one way in and out of the castle — the front doors and the bridge over the moat. She knew the Aurors took turns on guard duty at the doors each night, but sneaking past them shouldn’t be too much of a problem. 

When she estimated the time was right, she slipped off the heavy fur cloak and traded it for a lighter-weight but darker colored cloak with a large hood. Tugging the hood over her head and making sure her wand was handy, she stepped out of the room and into the corridor. Nobody was in sight. 

She took a more indirect route towards the entrance, creeping down several unlit staircases and passing through a room that was full of rusting suits of armor, counting the turns she took. Left, left, right, left, right — until she pulled on a thick wooden door and stepped out into the open area just above the entrance hall of the castle.

It looked like she was not the only one who had plans to sneak out that night. A figure dressed in dark robes leaned over the balustrade, peering down into the wide entry hall of the castle. His blond hair gave him away immediately. Pretty Ricky apparently also had it in mind to go out of bounds.

She prowled over and rested her arms on the balustrade beside him. “Pre-tty Ric-ky,” she dragged out the syllables in a whisper. “Who’s the girl you’re off to see?”

He flinched at her sudden appearance but remained silent. She took the opportunity to tug his hood over his head, making him whine. 

“Malfoy — who’re  _ you _ off to see?” he shot back. 

“None of your business.”

“Then the witch I’m off to shag is none of  _ your  _ business.”

“So you are off to shag someone.”

“You must be too,” he said, slipping an arm round her waist and shivering. “Want a warm-up before we head out?”

“No thanks,” she stepped away from him and looked down to note that the Aurors on duty at the moment were Alastor Moody and one of the Finnish Aurors. They sat at a small table under one of the torches. Moody flipped through a book — she couldn’t see the cover but it didn’t look like a light summer read. The Finn doodled on a Finnish newspaper, occasionally chuckling to himself.

“So how’d you plan to sneak out?”

“Er — I was getting to that,” he tried and failed to sound confident. 

She snickered and knew he must have been standing there for some time. “Lucky for you I showed up. Stay quiet and follow me.” Pointing her wand at one of the suits of armor beside the entrance doors, she muttered a spell. The armor sprang to life and darted off through the entrance hall, heading into the corridor to the right of the large staircase.

The Aurors watched it run off. The Finnish Auror, who was much older, looked at Moody.

“You get that,” he said and returned to doodling.

Moody was obviously not happy about this but he stood and hurried after the runaway suit of armor. After a few seconds, Natalie muttered the same spell and another suit of armor sprinted down the corridor to the left of the stairs. With a groan, the Finnish Auror pulled himself up to pursue it.

Ricky scoffed. “If I’d known it would be that easy-”

“Shh,” she hushed him and headed down the large staircase. Torches flickered, sending shadows dancing over the stone and wood. This was the tricky part — the doors. They reminded her of the entrance doors to Hogwarts; enormous, made of a thick wood, stretching all the way up to the ceiling of the hall. A huge metal bar locked them. She had a suspicion the Aurors had placed a few more complex spells on the doors since she’d locked everyone out. Pointing her wand at the metal bar, she muttered a spell. 

Nothing happened.

“Good job,” remarked Ricky.

“Shut up,” she said. Tucking her wand in her pocket, she placed a hand on the metal and closed her eyes, imagining a current of energy running down her arm and into the mechanism. There was a groaning of metal. She opened her eyes and removed her hand. The metal bar slid to the left until the doors were unlocked.

She pushed on one of the heavy doors and it slowly inched open. She shot a look at Ricky and he gave her a toothy grin.

“That was sexy.”

Natalie rolled her eyes and slipped out of the castle and into the cool mountain air. She made sure to close and lock the door using the same flow of energy, ignoring Ricky’s salacious comments as she did so.

“Hurry,” she hissed once she finished. 

“Hold on,” he said, heading towards the edge of the bridge. “I want to see if the sharks are nocturnal.”

“Bloody hell, Webster,” she growled and grabbed his cloak, pulling him across the bridge. “There are no sharks!”

She didn’t let go of him until they ducked into the safety of the forest. They walked along the path in silence, or as silent as Ricky Webster could be. She ignored his inquiries into whether or not they could hold hands as they passed through the “dark creepy forest” and then his very detailed story about how he had once shagged a  _ Witch Weekly _ editor in a forest in Germany. Ricky had just launched into another story when they emerged from the woods at the edge of the village. 

“Bloody hell,” whispered Natalie as Ricky exclaimed, “blimey!”

Lauterbrunnen looked like a carnival. The wide main street was full of witches and wizards milling about, laughing and chattering. Everything and everyone was draped in the colors of the team they supported. British and Finnish flags hung from each house, waving in a magical breeze. Faces of the two teams flashed from enormous hats, jumpers, even gaudy socks that die-hard fans eagerly showed off to their friends. Carts lined the street, vendors boasting their wares in dozens of different languages. The scents of cooked sausage and spiced wine floated towards them. Floating spheres of white light drifted over the scene. Occasionally one would drop too low and someone would jump up and bat it into the air like a balloon, inciting cheers from the crowd. Children were dashing around the vendor carts on tiny broomsticks, nicking cream pies and pastries and laughing to themselves as the angry merchants shouted at them. Fireworks went off at the far end of the town, and the crowd started oohing and ahhing. 

“This is where the fun is,” Ricky groaned and darted into the crowd. Natalie hurried to keep up, wincing as they shot into the masses and her senses were swamped. Conversations spun every which way, the reek of human sweat mingled with the savory scents of food as a thousand heartbeats seemed to bounce to the same rhythm.

As they passed a cart selling goblets of a strongly-scented liquid, Ricky snatched two up and handed one over to her.

“That’s stealing,” she said but took a sip anyway. It was a warm cinnamon wine that danced over her tongue and seemed to numb out the sensory overload. She eagerly downed the rest of it. Ricky straightened, clearly impressed, and grabbed another goblet for her while the merchant yelled at a rosy-cheeked little boy who must have stolen many more goblets than Ricky had.

“I’ve never paid for drinks in my life,” he bragged and she decided the wine was too useful (and delicious) to argue further.

“Look,” he nudged her after they had only walked a few more paces. He pointed at another cart. It was mobbed with fans but she caught a glimpse of what was being sold: tiny figurines of the Quidditch teams that walked and made gestures of their own accord. Her platinum blonde hair and the red curls of the Pottingers were visible. A miniature Dent looked to be giving Mikko Takkala the bird. “It’s us. I want one.”

“What,” she groaned but he dragged her after him, pushing through the crowd around this cart. “Ricky!”

“That’s my last Lassila, I’m sorry, folks!” the merchant was shouting. He was a stout middle-aged wizard wearing a dirty white apron that was obviously heavy with gold. There was a sharp look about his eyes and she immediately knew there was some sort of fraud going on at this cart. “You, no you — you’ve got to pay for that Dent there! Yes, Malfoy’s going for thirteen Galleons, I don’t make the prices, the buyers do-”

Ricky elbowed his way to the front of the cart. He shoved some gold into the merchant’s hand and demanded, “give me a Malfoy, and one of those handsome fellas — Ricky Webster, he’s bloody gorgeous, he is.”

The merchant counted the Galleons with a beady eye, his mouth twitching (Natalie was sure Ricky had given him the amount of gold Ricky  _ thought  _ a figure of himself ought to be worth, not the actual price). The merchant handed over the two figures before turning to another buyer, tucking Ricky’s gold into his grimy apron pockets. 

Ricky placed the figure of himself on his shoulder, where it licked a hand and ran it through its bright blond hair. He then presented the figure of Natalie to her. She watched herself scowl and realized she was also scowling.

“They got the proportions right,” observed Ricky, “and the moody facial expressions. . . tits could be a bit bigger, in real life too-”

“Oh, shut up!” she snatched herself away from Ricky, letting the little figurine of herself sit cross-legged in the palm of her hand. “I didn’t come here to shop.” She turned to lead him away and he followed, laughing to himself. 

“Oi!” a voice called through the crowd. Her heart skipped a beat — they must have been spotted. “Excuse me!”

“Dammit,” she muttered, dragging Ricky after her. 

“Wait up!” yelled the voice — she realized it sounded a bit familiar and slowed. “You overpaid — that bloke cheated you-”

Ricky Webster let out a noise and pulled her backwards. Whoever was following them must have tugged on his robes to stop them. Natalie turned to watch Ricky’s hood fall off, revealing his bright blond hair and signature smirk. She quickly reached up and forced the hood back over his head. Then she found herself looking at Fleamont Potter. A witch with frizzy auburn hair was beside him. They were both staring at Ricky in shock. Natalie noticed that Fleamont had a figurine of herself on his shoulder, and the witch had a figure of Dent.

“Er,” Potter began, “you’re, er-”

“Fleamont!” she whispered, and tugged her own hood off just enough for him to recognize her. “It’s me!”

Fleamont’s eyes grew round as Galleons. The witch beside him let out a little squeal. 

“I didn’t know the players were in the town tonight,” the witch whispered in shock.

“We’re not,” Natalie said, moving closer to them. She put the figure of herself on her own shoulder and let it peer around the street with interest. “It’s just us.”

Fleamont gave her an impressed grin. “So you’re not supposed to be here. Bending the rules, I see.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. A few people were giving them interested looks. Spotting a darker alley off the street, she gestured to them to follow her, holding Ricky’s sleeve to make sure he didn’t run after some random girl. When they were safely in the shadows, huddled against the side of a brick building, she tossed her hood off, almost knocking the figure of herself to the ground. 

“I just wanted to tell you that that bloke cheated you,” explained Fleamont as the figure on Natalie’s shoulder struggled out from under the hood and gave the real Natalie a dirty glare. The figure of Natalie on Fleamont’s shoulder started waving at the real Natalie. 

“No, he didn’t,” Ricky lowered his hood and looked miffed. He patted the head of his own figurine with one finger and nearly crushed himself. “I’m worth twice as many Galleons as Malfoy.”

Natalie subtly shook her head at Fleamont and the witch, warning them to not continue on the subject. She stepped closer to them and found herself picking up on the rhythm of their breathing. 

Ricky ran an eye over the auburn-haired witch, making her blush through the darkness. He turned to Potter. “This your girl?”

“Er, no,” Potter said hastily, and the witch purpled. “Just, er, we just, um, met up — only met a few months ago actually, er, just saw her in the crowds — we don’t, we’re not-”

Ricky clapped a friendly hand on Fleamont’s shoulder and he immediately shut up, swallowing hard. “Mate, you’ll never get the witches if you stutter like that.”

“I’m Euphemia Travers,” the witch squeaked as Fleamont turned purple this time and ran a hand through his messy hair. Natalie grinned. Fleamont’s body heat was off the charts and his heart was racing. 

“I’m Natalie Malf-” she began to introduce herself but stopped. Obviously, they knew who she was. “Right, um, anyway — have either of you seen any other Brits in this crowd? Um. . . like Adolphus Lestrange or Evan Rosier? Maybe Eric Dawson or Zack Nott?”

“Eric Dawson?” Euphemia repeated, eyes wide. “Do you know him?”

Fleamont was also staring at her. “You know that lot?”

“Course,” she said. She looked at Euphemia with interest — her heart rate had spiked. “They’re my friends.”

“You’re  _ friends  _ with them?” Fleamont said as though he could not believe it. 

“You’re friends with them?” Ricky echoed in a grab for attention. She smacked his shoulder and looked between Fleamont and Euphemia.

“Yeah, I am,” she said, “have you seen them?”

“No, but I know what house they’re staying in,” said Fleamont. He grinned nervously and checked his watch. “They’re usually, er, throwing a party at this hour. They’re by invite only but the whole village knows about them.”

“How come I didn’t get an invite?” Ricky sounded offended. 

Natalie ignored her teammate. “Brilliant — want to show me the house?”

“Sure,” Fleamont looked delighted. He glanced around the dark alley. “We’ll, uh, have to go back onto the main street-”

“That’s fine,” she said, tugging her hood on and making the figurine on her shoulder stamp its foot angrily. She forced Ricky’s hood over his head and he started whining.

“I don’t want to go to your friends’ stupid party, they obviously don’t know who I am — and are you sure they’re even your friends if they didn’t invite you?”

Ignoring Ricky again, she nodded at Fleamont and Euphemia. She followed the pair back onto the crowded main street. Fireworks burst overhead, turning the night sky red and blue. Drunken notes of God Save the Queen floated about. Someone was playing a catchy jig inside one of the houses, and people would stop and dance for a bit before laughing and moving on. What sounded like a Finnish love song was being crooned from somewhere and a few couples were ducking into side streets. 

Moving through the crowd was easy, as most people were heading in the same direction. They soon came to a large circle of people who all seemed to be watching something. The air was bubbly and tinted with magic, it gave Natalie a warm feeling around her ears and made her grin. A band clothed in all white played a lively ballad from the roof of a house nearby. 

“What are they looking at?” asked Natalie, standing on her tiptoes and trying to peer over the countless shoulders and elaborate hats with the faces of the teams on them. 

“My girlfriend,” Ricky sounded very smug. 

“What?” she asked, flabbergasted, “your  _ girlfriend _ ? I didn’t think she was real.”

Ricky scoffed and pointed through a gap in the crowd. In the middle of the circle was a very beautiful witch wearing a sparkly white leotard. Her white-blonde hair was loose and flowed to match the rhythm of the band as she leapt and spun to the music. The air seemed to glisten around her, drawing the eye and — from the feel of the wizards around her — bewitching the mind. It was clear the dancer could claim significant Veela ancestry. Natalie watched her do a pirouette and then wink at a teenage wizard, who turned bright red and started babbling to his friends. She estimated the witch to be at least three quarters Veela, if not full Veela.

“She’s definitely real — and she never says no to a shag, unlike  _ you _ ,” Ricky said. He began moving to the front of the crowd. Natalie let him go, finding herself glad to be rid of him. She only hoped he wouldn’t cause a ruckus that could be traced back to her. 

Natalie turned to Euphemia and Fleamont to find Euphemia waving her hands in front of Fleamont’s face. Potter, like the rest of the wizards in the crowd, was gaping at the dancing Veela, absolutely entranced. 

“Maybe you should kiss him,” Natalie suggested over the clamor of the crowd. Euphemia blushed at the suggestion, making Natalie grin. 

“Do it,” she urged the witch. “He fancies you.”

Euphemia squeaked, “he what?”

“He definitely fancies you,” Natalie laughed.

Euphemia hesitated for a moment too long, so Natalie stepped over and lightly slapped Fleamont across the face. Knocked out of the Veela-induced trance, he let out a gasp and jumped, looking around wildly. 

“Welcome back,” said Natalie, “I tried to convince Euphemia to kiss you but she refused.”

“O-oh,” Fleamont stuttered, turning a deep red. Euphemia looked horrified. 

“It’s not that I wouldn’t,” the witch started babbling, “or that you’re not attractive. That’s not why I wouldn’t — I didn’t mean it like that — I do think you’re fit, I do, it’s just that I. . . I dunno, it’s confusing, because, well, there’s Eric-”

Natalie let out a small scream as what Euphemia had said earlier flashed to the front of her mind. “Oh my God, you fancy  _ Eric Dawson _ ?”

Euphemia stared at the bricks of the street, looking like she wanted to melt into them. “Er — I’m not sure, I really — yes, but it’s complicated, I just — I, I don’t know!”

Fleamont found the fireworks bursting overhead to be fascinating. Natalie realized she had gotten herself involved in some dodgy love triangle and quietly swore under her breath. She wondered if Dawson even knew Euphemia fancied him. 

“Let’s keep walking,” she suggested and Fleamont gladly led them through the mob around the dancing Veela. They continued down the street and it grew slightly less crowded, the scene turning darker. Fireworks, gold, bottles of alcohol, and pouches of what she suspected were definitely some sort of illegal substance were exchanging hands in plain sight. People gathered outside packed pubs that played loud music, their friends handing them drinks through the windows. Giggling witches in revealing outfits skipped down the street. Drunken wizards yelled angry words at each other, a duel breaking out every now and then that would attract an audience and lots of gambling on the outcome.

Natalie found herself mulling over the newly discovered fact that this Euphemia Travers fancied Eric Dawson, one of her friends, one of the Knights. She studied Travers out of the corner of her eye and tried to visualize her with the group of Dawson, Lestrange, Nott, Rosier, Avery, and the others; tried to visualize Euphemia Travers on the level of Savanna Rowle, Pamela Selwyn, Quinn Bulstrode. She could not picture this bubbly, nervous-looking witch amongst them and found herself oddly defensive over Eric Dawson. She did not want Euphemia Travers to date him.

“So. . . have you met Eric?” Natalie casually asked Euphemia. 

“Er, yes — I work at Slug and Jiggers. He comes to collect our reports for Triple I every Friday. One time. . . one time he invited me to the Leaky Cauldron with his mates. . . that’s where I met Fleamont. . . .”

Fleamont started whistling, pretending not to hear their conversation as he led them down the street. Natalie leaned in to whisper to Euphemia.

“I think you’ll have better luck with Potter.”

Euphemia blushed, eyeing Fleamont’s scruffy hair and smiling to herself, as though his hair held some sort of secret. “You think so?”

Natalie lightly touched her arm, making the witch flinch and stare at her in astonishment. “Yeah. Eric can be a nightmare.”

“He — he seems nice,” Euphemia whispered, “a bit arrogant with his friends, though.”

“He and Adolphus Lestrange are terrible troublemakers.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“One time they nearly destroyed Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley.”

Euphemia laughed but said nothing as Fleamont turned to them. 

“There,” he pointed at one of the houses on the street. It looked like every other house. The only difference was the black silhouette of a knight riding a horse, raising a sword aloft on one of the windows. That, and a large crowd gathered outside it, occasionally looking towards the door.

“Crowd forms every night and tries to get in,” Fleamont explained. “Most don’t. I heard witches get in more easily than blokes.”

As if to confirm his words, a witch with long dark hair and a very short skirt darted out of the crowd. She looked back, grinned at someone who hollered at her, and scampered up the steps. She knocked on the door and it opened after a minute. Natalie couldn’t see who opened the door from the angle they were at. After a brief conversation and a lot of tossing of her hair, the witch stepped into the house and the door closed behind her.

“Brilliant,” Natalie shot Fleamont a grin. “Thanks Flea. You lot want to come in?”

“Er,” Fleamont looked hesitant.

“No,” said Euphemia, peeking at Fleamont out of the corner of her eye. “I wouldn’t mind getting one of those smoked sausages. . . .”

Fleamont snapped his head over at her and grinned. “I’d love to get one. . . .”

“Have fun,” she smirked and left the two to their own devices. She darted around the crowd in the street and snuck into the alley leading behind the house, betting on there being a back door. To her annoyance, there was a smaller crowd around the back door, talking amongst themselves.

“Katie got in the other day but that’s because she works with some of them at the Ministry — Rosier and Nott, I think-”

“Yeah, I heard Katie tried to have a go at Rosier but his girl kicked her out-”

“Oh, damn, he has a girl?”

“Yeah, she’s the gal who made the bloody hat you’re wearing-”

“Why are we even here? Nobody’s ever gotten in through the back door-”

“That’s why we’ll be the first!”

Laughing under her breath, Natalie wove through the group and flew up the stairs to the back door. It was locked, but she concentrated for a moment and the door clicked open under her hand. Someone shouted at her from the crowd. She stepped in and came face to face with a wand. Behind the wand was Zacharias Nott, a breathless Pamela Selwyn beside him. Nott already had a visible suck mark on the side of his neck.

“No invite, no entry,” he snapped coldly. “That’s the rule. Don’t appreciate you breaking through the door-”

She let her hood fall and grinned at him. His jaw dropped and he lowered his wand. 

“Bloody hell, how’d you get here?”

“Holy shit, Natalie,” said Pamela, “what are you doing?”

“Snuck out of the castle,” she whispered, closing and locking the door behind her. They were in a dark hallway, a staircase directly to her right. At the end of the hallway was a large room bursting with people and noise. Some couples were streaming into the hall and ducking into rooms. Pamela and Nott must have been one of these.

“Heard you lot throw parties every night that are  _ invite only _ ,” she looked between Nott and Pam. They both gave her drunken grins. 

“Yeah,” slurred Nott, “gotta keep the nightlife interesting in this town.”

Pamela was smirking. “You see the crowds? People are dying to get in here.”

She laughed, “well, I’ll leave you two to whatever you were. . . doing.”

With a giggle, Pamela tapped her wand against the wall near the staircase, then pulled Nott up the stairs. Natalie threw her hood back up, making the figurine on her shoulder trip once again. With a snort, she removed the figure of herself and let it sit in her hand as she headed down the dark hallway, ignoring the noises that came from the rooms off the hall. 

She emerged in a large kitchen area that morphed into a living space. The scents of Firewhiskey, hard liquor, perfume and sweat flew out to meet her. The room was crammed full of people — there had to be more than fifty witches and wizards. Nobody had bothered to put an Enlarging Charm on the house. She figured it was so the party could remain “exclusive.” Loud music was playing from somewhere and everyone was yelling to be heard over it. She spotted many familiar faces. Cato Greengrass. Neil Lament. Jonathan Shaw. Cassiopeia Black. Evan Rosier and Quinn Bulstrode were running a violent, and very drunken, game of Exploding Snap. Elizabeth Beckham was in a corner comforting a witch who had tears streaming down her face. Eric Dawson and Adolphus Lestrange were sitting like kings on top of the island counter that separated the kitchen area from the living room. Dozens of bottles were beside them. Savanna Rowle was leaning on Adolphus’s shoulder, nuzzling her nose through the curls of his dark hair that he was growing out. From the look on Lestrange’s face, Natalie guessed his fiancée (the epitome of a sweet, shy pureblooded princess) was whispering a litany of dirty things in his ear. Several witches were hovering around Dawson, giggling and trying to catch his eye. 

A whoop went up around the room as the same witch Natalie had seen enter earlier jumped onto a table and started dancing wildly. She was joined by several more witches until the table collapsed under their weight and they fell to the floor screaming as laughter rang out. It didn’t take Natalie long to realize that the criteria for receiving an invite to this party consisted of nothing more than being pureblooded (or claiming to be), and being very, very attractive.

Antonin Dolohov was leaning against a nearby wall, saying something into the ear of a pretty blonde witch who was hanging onto his arm and looking very intoxicated. Natalie stalked across the room towards him first, ducking around drunken witches until she was practically breathing in Dolohov’s ear the same way he was in the witch’s.

“Hi, Antonin,” she flicked the bare skin of his neck. His reaction was instantaneous. He jumped, the witch slipped off his arm and fell to the floor with a scream as he whipped around.

“What the-”

She dropped her hood and grinned at him. He stared, thunderstruck.

“How’d you get here?” he breathed.

She rolled her eyes and knelt to help the witch up from the floor, who had started crying. She hauled the blonde to her feet and aimed her towards where Elizabeth Beckham was making the crying witch she was comforting drink a glass of water. 

“Go get some water,” she told the witch and gave her a slight push. She stumbled over towards Beckham, who looked up in confusion. Natalie waved at her from across the room, watching astonishment flash over Beckham’s face before the girl she had been comforting promptly vomited all over the floor at her feet. As if cued, the witch Dolohov had tried to flirt with proceeded to puke up everything she had consumed that night too.

With a laugh, she turned back to Dolohov. “Seriously, Antonin? She was so drunk she probably didn’t even know what you were saying to her.”

Antonin looked annoyed at this. “Everyone here is drunk.”

“I’m not,” she remarked, peering around. “Now where the fuck is Tom Riddle?”

“Left,” he said and she narrowed her eyes.

“What?”

“He left,” he repeated, “went for a walk or something. Said it was getting too rowdy.”

A bottle flew across the room and shattered against the wall, sending glass everywhere as several witches screamed. 

“I can see that,” Natalie muttered, now thoroughly annoyed that she had even bothered to leave the castle. It would be incredibly unfair if Ricky was the only one doing any shagging that night. 

“What’re you doing here?” asked Dolohov, attaching himself to her side. “How’d you get out of the castle? I thought you weren’t allowed into the town.”

“Snuck out,” she said, darting between stumbling witches to say hello to Lestrange and Dawson. The former looked ready to pull Savanna Rowle into one of the rooms down the hall. A redheaded witch who had been trying to cozy up to Dawson looked furious when Dawson spilled his drink on her as his eyes landed on Natalie. His jaw unhinged and he elbowed Lestrange in the gut, making him yelp.

Natalie squeezed herself in between Lestrange and Dawson, settling on the counter top. It was sticky with Firewhiskey and butterbeer and she grimaced at the feeling. Dolohov stood between them and the rest of the party like a guard dog. The redheaded witch tapped Dolohov on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” she snapped in a thick Irish accent and gestured to Dawson. “I’m his girlfriend.”

Dolohov laughed and rolled his eyes. “He shagged you once and said he didn’t even enjoy it — fuck off.”

Outraged, the witch let out a scream of fury and stomped away. Dawson sighed in relief.

Natalie stuck out her palm, where the figurine of herself still yawned and played with a Snitch the size of a few grains of sand. “You lot hear that Natalie Malfoy is at this party?”

Dawson flung an arm around her shoulders and leaned in to stare at the figure. Savanna erupted into laughter and fell into Lestrange’s lap, who looked very pained as she did so.

“That’s. . . that’s you!” Dawson drunkenly slurred. He stabbed a finger at the tiny figure but miscalculated the distance and poked the figure with a bit too much force. It tripped and fell out of her hand, hitting the floor where Dolohov promptly stepped on it as he moved away from a drunk witch singing the lyrics to a bawdy song.

“No!” Dawson shouted in horror at the fate of the figurine. It vanished in a poof of blue and red smoke.

“Antonin!” Natalie snapped, “you stepped on me!”

“Stepped on me,” Savanna laughed into Lestrange’s robes. “Stepped on me. . . .”

Lestrange practically had tears streaming down his face, either from the fact that his fiancée had landed very hard and very unexpectedly in his lap or from the events of the past few seconds.

“Oh, come off it,” snorted Dolohov, “this lot has bought about a hundred of those bloody things.”

“They did?” she asked in amusement. 

“Yeah,” Dawson admitted with a sheepish smile. Speaking seemed to require a tremendous effort from him. “Got all the players. Wanted to see if we could get them to fight each other. Zack reckons they’re charmed to vanish after forty-eight hours, which is why they keep selling so many. Blokes think they lose them.”

“Smart,” said Dolohov while Lestrange drunkenly croaked out “Savannaaaa” and leaned over his fiancée. Several screams went through the room, drawing Natalie’s attention towards the front door. (Lloyd Avery was apparently charged with admitting people as there was a sheet of parchment in his hand). Ricky Webster and his Veela girlfriend had just stepped in. 

“Who gave her an invite?” asked Natalie as witches started shrieking Ricky Webster’s name. Some even started tearing their clothes, making their already risqué outfits even more so.

“I did,” said Dolohov as most male gazes in the room were drawn towards the Veela. Savanna Rowle jumped to her feet and pulled Adolphus Lestrange after her. They vanished down the hallway for the night. Quinn Bulstrode took one look at the Veela and did the same with Evan Rosier. Dawson dropped his head onto Natalie’s shoulder and started mumbling something. 

“That’s Maria Buonvelli,” said Dolohov, sounding hypnotized. “She’s an Italian ballet dancer — bloody rich, and bloody fit. She’s in town for the match. . . it’d be rude not to invite her. . . .”

“She's coming over here,” Dawson mumbled. Indeed, Ricky Webster had caught sight of Natalie sitting in the middle of the chaos, and made a beeline towards her, Maria on his arm.

“She’s allegedly also Ricky Webster’s girlfriend,” said Natalie. Dolohov jumped up onto the counter where Lestrange had been before, straightening his robes and smoothening his hair. Natalie rolled her eyes.

“Well, hello,  _ Malfoy _ ,” Ricky said smugly as they stepped in front of the three on the counter. “Fancy seeing you here. I didn’t know your friends were the blokes who sent the party invite to  _ my girlfriend _ .”

Buonvelli perked up at his words, looking at Natalie with eyes that were more purple than blue. “Why, you’re Natalie Malfoy!” she said in unaccented English. Her voice had a sweet lilt that made Dolohov mutter a curse under his breath. 

“I am,” she replied. 

Buonvelli shot Ricky a disappointed look. “Darling, why didn’t you tell me your teammate was so attractive? She ought to join us in bed later, don’t you think?”

Ricky looked absolutely thrilled at the idea. “Yeah, she should-”

“I’m in a relationship,” Natalie tossed out. “No thanks.”

Buonvelli waved a hand, flashing her long, claw-like nails at a very drunk Eric Dawson, who was leaning on Natalie’s shoulder and drooling onto her robes. “With this one? Oh, honey. . . if men can’t handle whiskey, they can’t handle a woman in bed.”

“Not this one,” said Natalie as Dawson started whining into her hair. Buonvelli looked over at Dolohov, who straightened up.

“I can handle whiskey,” Dolohov said immediately, “I can handle  _ a lot _ of whiskey, if you know what I mean-”

Buonvelli continued as if Dolohov hadn’t spoken. She waved a hand at him in the same manner she had with Dawson, then looked back at Natalie. “With this one, then?”

“Not that one either,” said Natalie, now grateful that Tom Riddle was nowhere to be seen. She did not fancy hearing what Maria Buonvelli would have to say about him. 

“Shame,” sighed Buonvelli, fluttering her eyelashes at Dolohov, who looked utterly mesmerized. Natalie reached over to whack Dolohov’s head. At her touch, he whipped towards her and she watched him blink as though he had just woken up.

“What the fuck is happening?” he whispered.

She mouthed, “Veela” to him and he groaned, snapping his eyes shut.

“Well,” Buonvelli glanced around the room, sending smiles at the inebriated wizards who gawked at her. “I seem to have missed the best of the party,” she gently touched Ricky on the arm. “Darling, do you want to find the master bedroom-”

“Yes, absolutely — Malfoy, feel free to join us,” Ricky smirked and led Maria through the crowd towards the hallway leading to the rest of the house. 

“Is she gone?” asked Dolohov, he had kept his eyes shut.

“Yeah,” said Natalie.

He opened his eyes and looked around, snorting at Dawson drooling on her shoulder. “I hate Veelas.”

“You seemed pretty eager to have a chance to fuck her.”

“Veelas don’t exactly give you a choice.”

Natalie laughed and jumped down from the sticky counter. Dawson toppled down with her, she managed to catch him before he could hit the floor.

“Why’d you do that?” he groaned.

“Why’d you drink so much?” she snapped.

“Nothin’ to do here before the big match,” he mumbled as she hoisted him to his feet. “But fucking drink and — and fucking shag.”

“Antonin, help,” she ordered. Still laughing, Dolohov slung Eric’s arm over his shoulder. They helped him over to an empty couch away from the rowdiness of the party and threw him down onto it. Natalie conjured a goblet of water and shoved it into his hands, ordering him to drink it. He took a few sips and immediately passed out. 

“He’s right though,” said Dolohov, “and he’s done plenty of both.”

Natalie snorted and dropped into the armchair near the fireplace. There was no fire, as the fireplace was full of broken bottles. “Wish they’d let the teams out of the castle for a night. Merlin knows the boys all need a bloody shag. I’m getting sick of being the only witch around.”

Dolohov snickered. “Sounds like something you could take advantage of.”

“You’re not the first person to have that idea.”

“So, have you?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Boring.”

Feeling eyes on her, Natalie whipped her head over to spot Lord Voldemort snaking his way through the crowded room. He wore black robes and a stoic mask that made her muscles tense. His hands were in his pockets and his eyes glittered. He stepped right in front of her. 

“Get out of my chair.”

She did so gladly, hopping up onto the armrest and allowing him to take the seat. He immediately pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her as she settled her head against his chest, letting out a sigh of relief. The noise of the party faded into the background as she listened to his heart thump steadily. It was faster than normal. She looked up to stare at him. Something was swimming within his eyes. 

“Where’ve you been?” she asked.

“Walking,” he said, “heard a rumor that someone had forced their entry into the party and knew you would be dramatic enough to do something like that.”

She snorted. “I could’ve been more dramatic about it.”

Dolohov cleared his throat rather loudly. “You two are aware that there are plenty of empty rooms. . . .”

“Including mine,” Tom said in her ear. She grinned and he stood to set her on her feet. 

“Antonin, you’re in charge of the party,” Natalie said, sending him a salute. Dolohov rolled his eyes and mockingly returned the salute as another bottle shattered somewhere in the room and a few witches screamed. Tom led Natalie by the hand through the chaos and into the dark hallway leading to the back of the house.

“Tell me it’s upstairs,” she groaned as they snuck through the noisy hallway.

“Obviously,” he tapped his wand in a particular pattern against the wall near the staircase like Selwyn had done earlier. There was a buzzing sound as a charm lifted, allowing them entrance to the second floor. 

Natalie grinned and said “perfect!” before he pulled her up the stairs.


	43. August 1946: Lovely Morning, Isn't It?

Natalie hadn’t planned on staying the night in the town. She hadn’t exactly planned beyond finding Tom Riddle. She jumped awake as the first rays of sun burst over the town and immediately rolled herself and Tom Riddle off the bed in a panic.

“What the fuck,” he hissed, snapped out of sleep as she frantically untangled her sore body from him.

“I wasn’t supposed to stay here!” she groaned, throwing her clothes back on and wrapping her cloak over herself.

“What are they going to do?” he asked sarcastically, “arrest you?”

“Dent’s gonna kill me — or the Aurors will stick a tracking charm on me or something stupid,” she ran her hands through her hair, trying not to look totally disheveled from last night.

“If they find out,” he said, he hadn’t bothered moving from the floor, watching her with glittering eyes.

“That if grows bigger every second.”

He said nothing. She deflated under his gaze and sighed.

“I’ve nearly forgotten we’re here to play in the Quidditch World Cup.”

“I can tell. It seems everyone else has forgotten that too.”

“It’s taking too long to get here.”

“So it seems.”

She stared at him. His voice had a hint of something in it — probably anger. They hadn’t done much talking last night but he had made it clear he was  _ not  _ happy about something. His mood hadn’t seemed to improve much over the course of the night either.

“What is it?” she asked. 

He was silent. He stared up at her from the floor, his jaw twitching almost imperceptibly. She watched a flame of red dart through his eyes and found herself struck with a familiar feeling — a churning in her gut and a buzzing in the back of her mind. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered — it was the same anxiety she felt before a Quidditch match. She looked away from him and the feeling faded but she could still feel his eyes on her. 

“What?” she snapped, growing angry now.

He made a noncommittal humming noise in the back of his throat that did nothing but annoy her further. 

Natalie didn’t say anything else. She shot one last peek at him before darting out the door. Her legs were shaky as she bolted down the stairs and nearly ran right into Ricky Webster in the hallway. She froze and they both stared at each other before a smirk flashed across his face.

“Seems like we both had a fun night,” he made kissing noises. “Who was the bloke?”

“Who was the girl?” she snapped.

Ricky looked scandalized. “My girlfriend-”

“Good for you,” she stomped past him towards the kitchen. “Hurry up, we need to get back to the castle before everything goes to shit — oh fuck,” she paused, realizing she and Ricky were not the only ones awake.

Antonin Dolohov, Eric Dawson, and Winky Crockett were sitting around the kitchen table, Dawson nursing what looked like the worst hangover of his life. Mugs of coffee and a platter of pancakes and eggs were in front of all of them. There were two other wizards present whom she vaguely recognized. One had a very bushy blond mustache, and she could have sworn she’d seen him at Quidditch matches. The other had well-groomed dark hair and was staring at her with interest in his sharp eyes. Both were wearing jumpers with the English national team logo on them. 

Crockett looked at her with annoyance, then raised his eyebrows when Ricky appeared behind her. “Did you two come here to shag?”

“No,” she hissed while Ricky immediately said, “yes.”

She rolled her eyes and strolled forward, dropping into an empty seat, Ricky following. Both Quidditch players immediately helped themselves to food.

“Not each other, at least,” Dolohov muttered. Natalie gave him a glare and he winked. Crockett did not miss this. 

“Wow,” Crockett said under his breath. She didn’t feel like trying to convince her agent that she was not shagging her Uncle’s assistant. 

“Who made the food?” she asked, using a charm to pour syrup over her pancakes. Ricky then banged the table with his fork until she poured syrup over his pancakes too.

“Eric,” said Dolohov, “apparently he likes to cook when he’s hungover.”

Dawson made a groaning noise. “You woke me up.”

“I thought you were dead,” Dolohov pointed out.

Natalie snorted, swallowed a mouthful of eggs and shot a look at Crockett. “What are you doing here, Winky?” 

“Heard a rumor that the national team was crashing a party in the village,” he said, looking none too happy about this. “Knew it had to be the party these idiots throw,” he pointed between Dawson and Dolohov. The former chugged the rest of his coffee and the latter just smirked. “And I knew you had to be doing the crashing.”

“Mad you weren’t invited?” Dolohov teased.

“Zack invited him,” mumbled Dawson, pouring himself more coffee. “He never comes.”

Dolohov looked outraged to learn this. “Well — well, then why don’t you come?”

Dawson winced, “shut the fuck up, Antonin.”

The wizard with the sharp eyes pulled something from his pocket and rolled it over to Dawson. 

“Pepper-Up Potion,” the wizard explained. “It’ll have you back to normal in no time.”

Dawson immediately uncorked the vial and dumped it into his coffee. “Thanks, Gus.”

Natalie chewed on a pancake and studied the two unfamiliar wizards. They were older than everyone else present and she had a feeling they were Ministry. With Winky Crockett angry at her and Lord Voldemort anxious about something, she was not in the mood to play nice. She gestured between the two with her fork. “Who are these blokes?”

The mustached wizard flung his hand across the table and gave her an enormous grin. “Harry Bagman — I work for Jack Lament, help out with game ops and other fun stuff.”

“Oh, right,” she realized why he looked familiar. Ricky scooped Bagman’s hand up. 

“I assume you know who I am,” he gave Bagman a winning smile.

Bagman laughed and tried to extricate his hand from Ricky’s. “Of course.”

Natalie turned her gaze to the other, darker wizard. He winked. 

“Augustus Rookwood.”

“Rookwood’s an Unspeakable,” Dolohov dropped the fact. “Department of Mysteries bloke. Refuses to tell anyone what he does.”

“That happens to be part of the job,” Rookwood said with a laugh.

“Hm,” Natalie focused on cutting a pancake into triangles. She liked Rookwood’s energy and it didn’t seem like Bagman was here to rat her out to the Aurors — or even his boss. “So. . . what’s everyone doing here?”

“These blokes saw me hurrying my ass over here this morning,” Crockett said irritably. “Figured it had something to do with you — tagged along because they wanted to meet you.”

“We were on our way to the Mountain Skies Café,” Bagman said, “any of you lot try it yet?”

“Yeah,” Dolohov grinned. “Get the blueberry vanilla scones if you want to see everything as opposite colors all day. I thought I’d lost my bloody mind.”

Crockett cleared his throat. “Lovely suggestion, thank you, Antonin. But I’d like to address the elephant in the room.”

Ricky started, looking all around. He leaned over to whisper in Natalie’s ear. “Is this bloke mental? There’s no elephant in here.”

“It’s you,” she whispered back. Ricky looked offended but Crockett cut over his retort.

“What the fuck are you two doing outside the castle?” 

Natalie ignored the question as she finished off her pancakes and poured herself a mug of coffee, happy that Dent wasn’t there to snatch it out of her hands.

“Shagging,” said Ricky, sounding pleased with himself. 

Natalie sighed, “to be clear, I did  _ not _ shag  _ him _ .”

“But she was given every opportunity to do so,” Ricky announced, “let that be noted.”

“It’s noted,” Dolohov said. His comment did nothing but reinforce Crockett's belief that Dolohov and Natalie were sleeping together. Her agent gave her a disapproving look.

Natalie elbowed Ricky. “Where’s Maria?” 

Ricky shrugged, unconcerned as he shoveled eggs into his mouth. “Dunno. She’s always gone when I wake up.”

“Nice girlfriend,” remarked Dawson. He was looking immensely better after the Pepper-Up Potion.

“She is bloody nice,” Ricky shot at him, mouth full of food. “In everything she does, actually-”

Natalie kicked him under the table. He yelped and started choking. Rookwood shot a spell at him to clear his throat. Taking several deep breaths, Ricky pointed between Crockett and Natalie.

“She’s trying to bloody kill me!”

Everyone at the table either laughed or rolled their eyes. Feeling a prickling gaze on her, Natalie turned to spot Tom Riddle enter the kitchen. He was dressed in clean robes and looked like he had taken the time to shower before heading downstairs. But something about his damp hair felt uneasy. She glared at him. He ignored her and dropped into the seat between her and Ricky, helping himself to food.

Ricky immediately peered over at her, his blue eyes wide as he tried and failed to whisper around Tom Riddle. “You shagged  _ him _ last night? Blimey, we would’ve invited both of you to join me and Maria.”

Natalie inhaled her mouthful of coffee and had to slap a hand to her throat to make sure it didn’t end up in her lungs. Dolohov was shaking in the seat on her right like he was about to piss himself laughing and Augustus Rookwood looked like he was watching prime time entertainment. Crockett looked between her, Antonin Dolohov, and Tom Riddle in bewilderment before shaking his head. 

“The question still wasn’t answered,” said Crockett.

“What question?” she snapped.

“Why are you two out of the castle?”

“How come Ricky’s agent isn’t here too?” she asked instead, “why are you always running after me?”

“Natalie, I swear to Merlin-”

Natalie groaned, slumping back in her seat. “Winky, do you know how boring it is there? We’ve been here for almost two weeks, we’ve explored nearly the whole castle, there’s nothing else to do, and I’m the only witch stuck in a castle with a load of wizards who are also bored out of their goddamn minds and anxious for the bloody World Cup to hurry up and happen-”

“I’ve been so bloody horny,” said Ricky, shaking his head. “Like bloody hell-”

“They all are,” she snapped.

Crockett laughed. “Including you?”

“No,” she quickly said, but Tom Riddle snorted into his cup of coffee. She kicked him under the table and was annoyed when it did nothing to bother him. On her other side, Dolohov was doing his damnedest to keep a straight face. 

“If Mikko Takkala keeps bugging me, Finland might not have a Seeker to play in the World Cup,” she sneered and looked between Bagman and Crockett now. “Whose bloody idea was it to send us here so early anyway?”

Bagman shrugged. “No one’s, really. Just protocol, to get the teams adjusted. You lot got sent to Texas for the Semi-Final two weeks early. . . .”

“That’s different,” she said.

“How?” demanded Crockett.

“This is the  _ World Cup, _ ” she said simply and poured herself more coffee. Dent was just going to have to deal with her today. “That was the Semi-Final.”

“That’s not an excuse to ignore security protocols,” Crockett said. Natalie glared at him, the cup of coffee halfway to her mouth, debating whether or not to snap her fingers and fire a bolt of electricity through her agent. But she felt Lord Voldemort rest a hand on her knee under the table and instead swallowed as much coffee as she could. 

“We should get back,” she announced, downing the rest of the coffee and standing up. Everyone else around the table jumped to their feet as she did so, except Tom Riddle, who continued eating as though he was alone.

“And how did you plan on doing that?” Crockett raised an eyebrow, looking smug. “Walk through the front door? That’s a wonderful way to let everyone know you were wandering about the village last night.”

But Natalie was grinning maniacally at him, an image of a golden eagle landing on the parapets of the castle floating through her head. 

“Uh oh,” Dawson muttered, making Voldemort pause his eating and shoot a glance at her. She pulled out her wand and flicked it. When nothing immediately happened, looks were exchanged.

“Never seen you fuck a spell up,” Dolohov looked surprised. Dawson nudged him.

“I don’t think she did. . . .”

A loud banging on the door made most of them flinch. Crockett strode over and tugged it open, jumping aside as two brooms shot into the room and flew towards Natalie. She snatched them from the air and tossed one to Ricky, who looked like he wanted to kiss her.

“I’ll be damned,” Bagman shook his head, visibly impressed. Natalie knew he wasn’t letting a word slip to Jack Lament about this. She beamed at him. “They’re gonna fly in.”

* * *

Her calculations based on an eagle had been correct. There were no charms or spells inhibiting entry of the castle from the air. She thought it tremendously funny — nobody had thought about flying a broomstick in and out of the castle where the best Quidditch players in the world were staying. She was furious she hadn’t thought of it days ago.

They landed on the parapets near a door leading into the castle. Natalie banished their broomsticks back to their locker room at the pitch as Ricky tried to tell her about the one time he had shagged a witch while flying his broom over the Mediterranean. She did not believe a word of it.

Natalie yanked the heavy door open, Ricky behind her, and realized she had not quite calculated everything. Hans, the Swiss Auror, was a few steps down the stairs. For a moment, they all froze, staring at each other before Hans let out a very annoyed sigh and muttered something in another language. 

“I knew Dent was being ridiculous,” said Hans. His blue eyes screamed his irritation.

“He usually is,” Natalie said. She stepped through the doorway and dragged Ricky after her, a tight grip on his wrist in hope he would keep his mouth shut. “What’s it this time?”

“He’s convinced you both snuck out of the castle,” Hans said. He straightened his robes and started back down the stairs. Natalie shot a look at Ricky out of Hans’s sight. Ricky mimed zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key. 

“He’s in your kitchen, I would say he is having a tantrum. Lassila and the Finns came up to see what the noise is about. Dent insisted the Aurors search the castle.” It was clear Hans was upset about having to scour the castle for the missing players. 

Natalie made her laugh cheerful. “Well, you found us.”

“You know there are plenty of rooms here.”

“Uh, yeah-”

“So you know you don’t have to have sex on the parapets of the castle.”

“Yeah, Malfoy,” Ricky couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer. “I rated the roof a six. There are plenty of nines here, maybe even a ten-”

“Oh my Merlin,” she groaned. “Thank you, Hans, but I was not shagging this git.”

Hans looked her over as they came to a stop outside the door to the English floor. “Jacob Coot said you were working your way through both teams.”

“That bastard,” she muttered under her breath. “Coot’s full of it. Tell him to spend more time searching the castle for me than spreading rumors about me.”

“I wish he would,” Hans snapped. “I’m supposed to be giving my daily security report to Lars Oblinger but Dent insisted I help search for you two.”

Ricky laughed. “Who’s Lars Oblinger and why is his name so funny?”

“Our Minister of Magic here in Switzerland,” Hans said coldly. 

“Oh.”

Natalie yanked the door open. Dent’s yelling could be heard from down the hall. She laughed. 

“You can go, Hans,” she said.

He muttered something in what sounded like German and continued down the stairs. When he was out of sight, Natalie pushed Ricky through the door. 

“Good job, idiot, you’ve just insulted the Swiss Minister.”

“It’s not my fault he has a funny name!”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, marching past him. “How many bloody days until the World Cup?”

“Four,” Ricky happily reported.

“Can’t fucking wait.”


	44. August 1946: Rude Awakenings

Two days before the Quidditch World Cup, Arto Lassila, captain of the Finnish national team, was awoken by a sharp knocking on his door. He was unaware he was the last member of his team to be woken in this manner.

Mumbling swears in his native Finnish, as it had to hardly be six in the morning, he wrapped a blanket around himself and stumbled across the room. Whoever felt the need to pound on his door clearly had something urgent to tell him. Despite his grogginess, his mind started imagining all sorts of horrible things. Perhaps they hadn’t made it to the Quidditch World Cup and the past year had been a wonderful dream. Perhaps one of his teammates had been caught wandering around the town and the whole team was being disqualified. He knew Petri had been eyeing some local witches. Perhaps Mikko had finally slept with Malfoy and came to report back any interesting tidbits about the English team she’d let slip. Mikko was quickly running out of time to accomplish this, Arto was getting impatient.

Holding his breath, he pulled the door open. He caught a glimpse of the blond hair of the Swiss Auror named Hans before there was a muttering of a spell and everything went black.

* * *

Two days before the Quidditch World Cup, Eugene Dent, captain of the English national team, was awoken by someone banging on his door. He was unaware he would be the last member of his team to be woken like this. 

“Bloody hell,” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his eyes and rolling out of bed. He slipped into the bathrobe that looked like their Quidditch uniform and lumbered towards the door. The heavy knocking continued, making him think there was some sort of emergency. 

Mind now racing, he hurried towards the door, worried something had happened. Maybe they had been disqualified from playing in the Cup Final? Maybe Ricky and Natalie had snuck out of bounds  _ again _ and gotten themselves caught. He couldn’t prove they had snuck out the other night but he knew his teammates. They were far too content with themselves at breakfast the morning after. And he knew how Ricky Webster acted after he shagged a witch. Dent had briefly wondered if Ricky and Natalie had slept together, but dismissed the thought — Malfoy would never sink that low and Ricky wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut about it.

With a bad feeling in his gut, he wrenched open the door. He found himself staring stupidly at Hans, the blond Swiss Auror, holding a tray of food. 

“Er, what’s going on?” he asked immediately.

Hans just gave him a smile and stepped into the room. The door closed behind him.

“You slept well?” asked Hans, turning away from Dent to set the tray down on the table near the fireplace. 

“Er, yeah, yeah, slept well, I suppose,” Dent said slowly. 

“Good,” Hans straightened and turned to face Dent, his wand in hand. 

Dent took an instinctive step backwards, looking towards the bedside table where his own wand lay before Hans muttered a spell and everything went black.

* * *

Two days before the Quidditch World Cup, Natalie woke early in the morning with a headache. A dull thud just above the back of her neck, it immediately irritated her. Rubbing her neck and muttering swears, she swung herself out of the four-poster bed and tugged on the bathrobe that looked like her Quidditch uniform. She decided to forego shoes and stay barefoot, as she only planned to head down the hall to the kitchen-dining area the team used. 

Grabbing her wand from the ancient wooden table beside the bed, she flicked it and the time glowed. It wasn’t even six in the morning. The curtained windows were still dark. They weren’t practicing until noon that day, but Dent had mentioned something about going to the pitch to watch the Finns practice in the morning.

With a sigh, she tucked her wand into her pocket and stepped out into the drafty castle corridor. Despite being August, the interior of the castle was always cold. The stone floor felt smooth and cool under her bare feet as she headed down the corridor towards the cavernous dining hall.

Her headache seemed to grow with every step. She finally paused and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.

“Up early?” she opened her eyes to find Harlowe, Tarold, Moody, and the other English Aurors strolling down the corridor. She assumed their destination was also the kitchen. Tarold gave her a grin and a wink. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah, sort of,” she shrugged and ran a hand through her loose hair. A sudden urge to see Tom Riddle flashed through her and she missed what Harlowe said next.

“What?” she asked, blinking at him in confusion. Scrimgeour and Coot laughed and the younger Aurors started ducking into the kitchen. Moody, Tarold and Harlowe remained, and she knew Tarold was staring at her bare legs. Moody evidently knew this too; he shot a disgusted look at the older, married Auror before following the others into the kitchen.

Harlowe shook his head. “Christ — I said go back to bed, you look like you’ve just seen someone drown kittens.”

“Headache,” she muttered, “what’re you lot doing up this early?”

“The Finnish Aurors invited us to have breakfast with them this morning before you lot wake up,” grunted Harlowe. It was clear he was not thrilled with this. “Something about the spirit of international magical cooperation or some bullshit.”

“Well, I think it’s nice,” Tarold said loudly, making Natalie wince. The prospect of entering the kitchen full of irritable Aurors that early in the morning did not appeal to her headache. She reckoned she could wait to eat something — or, and this sounded much better — she could sneak out and find Tom Riddle and they could go to that Mountain Skies Café before it was swamped with visitors. 

“Oh, uh, okay,” she stuck her hands in her bathrobe’s pockets. “I’m gonna go back to bed. . . see you lot later.”

The Aurors muttered something (in Tarold’s case, she was fairly certain it was some flirty comment), but she turned and started heading back down the hall. A cup of coffee sounded like ambrosia — and it would be much easier to sneak out with all the Aurors having breakfast together. . . .

A door right in front of her swung open — the door to Dent’s room — and she froze, pulling her wand from her pocket on instinct. 

Hans, the tall, blond Swiss Auror stepped out, carrying a tray of steaming breakfast food. She lowered her wand as Hans flinched upon sighting her.

“Uh, oops,” she said, giving him a smile. 

He returned the smile, though still looked disconcerted. He quickly recovered himself. “Malfoy, what are you doing here?”

“Got hungry,” she mumbled, staring at the tray of fruit and crepes. She glanced at the closed door to Dent’s room, then looked back at Hans, head throbbing as she wondered why in the world the Swiss Auror was walking  _ out  _ of Dent’s room with a  _ full  _ plate of food.

He must have seen the question on her face. Hans gave her a much larger smile this time. “I’m delivering the team breakfast today.” He beckoned her to follow him down the hall and she began walking alongside him as he carried the tray. The scent of food made her headache sharpen.

“Dent thought it was a good idea for the team to have. . . breakfast in bed,” continued Hans.

“Dent thought that?” she frowned. That did not sound like Dent. 

“Yes,” said Hans. He opened the door and handed her the mug of coffee from the tray. She accepted it with delight and took a long gulp, eager to get rid of the headache as he allowed her to step in the room before him. “Everyone is being surprisingly reasonable today. Even the English Aurors asked the Finns to eat with them.”

She lowered the mug. The coffee left a bitter-tasting film in her mouth. She ran her tongue over her teeth and cleared her throat. “The English asked the Finns to eat with them?”

Hans set the tray of food on the long table against the wall. His back was to her and her head was throbbing, but she saw him pause. He turned to her with a charming smile. It struck her as odd that Hans, head of the Swiss Aurors, would deliver them breakfast. Hadn’t he mentioned something the other day about reporting to Lars Oblinger each morning?

“They both asked to eat with the other,” he said and gestured to the mug she held. “That’s the finest roast in Switzerland. How do you like it?”

She took another sip and stared at him over the rim. She quickly decided she did not like the coffee or his smile. Both had something very pungent about them.

“It’s strong,” she said with a shrug. It wasn’t helping her headache at all. 

He kept up his ridiculous smile and gave her a little bow. “Don’t drink it too fast,” he said and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

There was a soft clicking sound, as though the door had been locked. Natalie froze, breath catching in her throat as her heart started pounding as quickly as her head. A shiver of panic went through her and the coffee slipped from her hand. It hit the floor at her bare feet and the mug shattered, the caramel-colored liquid of Switzerland’s finest roast splattering everywhere. 

She ignored it. One hand flying to the ring around her neck, the other flying to the pocket where her wand lay, she lunged towards the door. There was a painful tugging sensation within her stomach, the world went black and she felt herself falling. She never made it to the door.


End file.
